


Thread

by yeaka



Series: A Honeycomb Tree [14]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Collars, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Half-Mirrorverse, M/M, Oral Sex, Pon Farr, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slavery, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1558628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock finds his father’s slave interesting. (Perhaps too much.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ~

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The shuttle ride home is a somber one, no matter what beauty’s washed in T’Rukh’s setting light outside his window. The other occupants of the Science Academy’s transport vessel are quite as silent as Spock is, pouring over PADDs or staring out portholes or even attempting to meditate. Though it’s never been discussed, Spock imagines that most of his peers are experiencing relief at the finish of their final term. For most, the next semester will be past general education and onto true job placement: young adults being fit permanently into their society. 

For Spock, this might be his final Academy shuttle ride, or at least, in terms of the Vulcan Science Academy. His rightful place is in the sciences on Vulcan, as was his father’s and his grandfather’s, but as Spock comes into his own, he’s slowly realizing that the desire isn’t necessarily his. 

He should, in fact, be experiencing the most relief of all. He’s finally free of an institution he only ever joined for his father’s sake, and what lies ahead should, in theory, be his own decision; he’s a grown man allowed to make his own choices.

But Spock isn’t so naïve, and instead, his stomach’s in turmoil as their shuttle sweeps past the thin clouds. He’s contemplating, as he’s done countless times before, putting in his application to Starfleet. Not a Vulcan division, but a branch of the entire Terran Empire, one more focused on seeing the stars. One with a little more diversity, where being half human might not set him so painfully apart. ...But he knows his father won’t approve, and he knows that he’s caused enough disappointment. 

Beside him, Suval turns his PADD off and leans his head back against the seat cushion, eyes falling shut. His hands are still on his knees, and Spock knows that he’s slipped into mediation, doubtless trying to retain all the information their final days belayed to them.

With a stifled sigh—an unruly habit picked up from his late mother—Spock attempts to do the same. He closes his eyes and lets his mind ebb away, embracing a calmness he never truly holds.

* * *

Sarek is on the front porch when Spock reaches his home, the steps up the mountain feeling higher than usual. Or perhaps it’s just the weight of his bags. Or the weight on his mind. He lifts his hand as he reaches the door, and Sarek salutes him back, greeting evenly, “Welcome home, Spock.”

Spock lowers his hand in acceptance, and Sarek stands to fall into line with him, Spock continuing on through the self-opening doors; it’s stiflingly hot outside. Vulcan is always hot, but he hasn’t been outside much since his studies started. The house is refreshingly cool, and the water sculptures in the foray dance as he passes them. He grips the bag’s strap on his shoulder, hiking it up, but Sarek tells him, “You may leave your luggage here; I have instructed my slave of your return.”

Spock does as he’s told, letting the heavy package fall, as well as those in his other hand. It’s a large pile to leave—larger than what he left with—but he’s gained possessions since studying: mostly new instruments for his work. As Spock divests himself of the weight, Sarek asks, “Have you already eaten?”

“Not since lunch,” Spock replies, now smoothing out his grey sweater—it’s the first time he’s been in civilian gear in months. The colour matches Sarek’s robes, quite by accident. Sarek holds a hand out to the hall.

“I have dinner waiting.” He follows the way he gestured, and Spock falls into line. He isn’t particularly hungry; general angst has kept his stomach too tumultuous to feel empty. But he doesn’t want to be rude, and whether or not it’s appropriate, he _has_ missed his father’s company. He’s never fully fit in with his peers no matter his efforts, but Sarek, at least, cannot truly begrudge his human heritage. Even if it’s never spoken of, he knows there’s a slightly higher degree of acceptance at home. Although, he’s doubtlessly become less human-like from his time spent away amongst other Vulcans his age, and that, at least, should please Sarek as much as his high grades.

The dining room is much as Spock left it. A new painting of the Voroth Sea hangs beside the Synthesizer, but it’s the only difference he can find. He takes his seat at the six-chaired rectangular table, the metallic legs dragging across the polished tile. The light through the tall window is fading, but the ceiling fixtures are a fair substitute. The table is already set, and as Sarek takes his seat at the head of it, he notes, “I have already received a transcript of your grades. You have done well.”

Spock nearly blushes—it’s very rare for Sarek to praise him. Because it’s a superfluous statement meant clearly for his benefit, he chances a short, “Thank you, Father.” Sarek must deem the application of gratitude acceptable, because he doesn’t gives Spock a lecture on illogical responses. Instead, he looks aside as their server steps out of the kitchen, balancing a plate of food in either hand. 

At first, Spock’s glance is marginal; he’s seen his father’s slave many times, and there’s nothing particularly remarkable about Stonn. But even the quickest look reveals, to Spock’s surprise, that it isn’t Stonn at all. In fact, the slave is blond, with piercing blue eyes and round ears—a human, Spock realizes. Unusual.

For a moment, Spock’s mesmerized. The new slave is a handsome specimen, dressed only in the small, traditional skirt and tight collar around his neck, bearing a pendant surely engraved with Sarek’s name. Spock catches himself staring as the slave places down their soup and salad, and when the slave glances sideways at Spock, he forces himself to look away, embarrassed to be caught. He’s carefully not to show that embarrassment on his face.

While the slave begins to split the meal between their two sets of plates and bowls, Spock asks in general, “What happened to Stonn?”

“His time came,” Sarek explains, and though it’s a general phrase, Spock quickly discerns the meaning. _Pon farr_ , mostly likely; the only ailment Sarek would not specifically reveal. “An unfortunate occurrence,” Sarek adds, while Spock fights to hide his reaction to such an event, “but that is the trouble with Vulcan slaves of your age.”

Finished doling out portions, the slave leaves with the empty serving dishes, returning shortly with sparkling water to pour into the glasses. Spock chances commenting, “A shame. Stonn served you well.”

“Yes,” Sarek answers tightly. As an ambassador, he has more than enough work to merit need of a well-trained, obedient slave. As abrasive as Stonn might’ve been to Spock for his mixed heritage whilst growing up, Stonn was an exemplary assistant. A part of Spock is surprised to think that a mere human could satisfy such a great man as his father, but then he reminds himself of his own mother’s genetics and therefore his father’s unusual proclivities. As the new slave leaves, Sarek says, “James is an adequate replacement. He is, of course, human, and thus falls naturally short in certain categories, but fortunately, he has other qualities that make up for his failings. Overall, I am sure you will find him a decent substitute for my servants of the past.” Spock nods in agreement.

He repeats, “James,” thoughtfully.

Sarek elaborates, “He has expressed a preference in the name ‘Jim,’ but I see no reason to mislabel him.” Sarek lifts a spoon and begins to drink his soup, which gives Spock the symbol to begin. He digests the new information and decides silently that ‘Jim’ will suffice; he has no preference on what slaves should like to be called. A part of him wants to ask _why_ his father chose a human, but he doesn’t want to be insulting. He suspects that his father has more than a healthy inclination towards the exotic, but he would, of course, never accuse Sarek of such a thing. Instead, he eats in silence.

He assumes that there’s a good chance Sarek simply strode into the slave center and chose the most attractive person available. Even after such a short look, Spock finds it oddly difficult to imagine anyone more beautiful. In his entire time at the Academy, he never saw anyone, student or otherwise, with eyes quite so captivating. 

As Spock alternates between his soup and salad, the fate of Stonn creeps back to him. He’s not sure what would be done with a slave experiencing the blood fever, and he, of course, would never ask. Perhaps another slave in a similar situation would be chosen, and they would be mated, even bred, and then parted again and resold. It would be possible. But being apart from one’s mate after being bonded, Spock thinks, would be very, very painful. 

The more he thinks on it, the more disturbing he finds the concept, and he chooses instead to move on to other things. It’s not his business. As Sarek mentioned, with Vulcans of their age, it’s inevitable.

Of _his_ age.

That’s even more unpleasant to think about, and he promptly starts up a conversation about his xenolinguistics class. It was the only place where his mixed-breed status served useful, and perhaps his particularly high marks in that subject will help ease Sarek into the concept of Spock leaving Vulcan, should he ever work up enough courage to say so.

Eventually, Jim comes to clear their plates, and Spock tries very hard not to look directly at him, even though it proves unnerving difficult—Jim’s entire body is just as pleasing as his face. The skirt he wears is conservative for a slave; it covers most of his thighs. As far as Empire masters go, Sarek is modest. But the thin material still clings too tightly to Jim’s taut rear, and Spock still finds it shamefully difficult to look away when Jim leaves, swaying too-sensually back and forth.

* * *

After dinner, they take a walk through the gardens. Spock’s mother planted most of it before her untimely passing, but it’s easy to see that Sarek’s kept them up quite well. Or at least, he’s had his slaves do so. Spock has memories of when he was little, watching Soran water the erabonian cacti, and later ones of watching Stonn with a trowel. The thought of Jim labouring away under the blistering Vulcan is... somewhat crueler. 

But it’s not his place to speak against his father’s choice of slave, so he doesn’t. Instead, he holds his hands behind his back and follows Sarek down the winding path, trading stories of what they’ve done in one another’s absence. Sarek, it seems, has nothing much to tell since his last letter; he’s been outlining trade routes between Freelan and Gamma VI from their home. Spock talks of what he’s learned, but not of how he was treated, and he wrestles with himself over revealing the truth of what he’s decided. For once, he seems to have Sarek’s approval, and he knows that as soon as he mentions Starfleet, it’ll shatter that.

Sarek doesn’t ask what Spock will do for his career. He simply carries on under the assumption that Spock will return to the Vulcan Science Academy, obtain several degrees, and either become an on-planet scientist of some sort or become a diplomat. Spock remains quiet under these references, though he knows that his silence is composed of cowardice. Still, his application won’t be due for another two weeks, and he tells himself he can at least enjoy a little more of his father’s approval before he inevitably ruins their relationship. 

As they turn the corner on the way back to the house, Spock spots Jim near the porch, pruning a rose bush. He’s sweating hard, and his skin shimmers with it, dyed a brighter pink. He’s on his knees in the dirt, but even in that position, he doesn’t look vulnerable—it seems a wonder his strong, toned arms can handle the delicate plant so carefully. At their slow approach, he looks up, and for a moment, their eyes lock together.

Spock abruptly forgets the conversation, and it falls into nothing. Sarek halts, and a moment too late, Spock stills as well. Sarek repeats, “You received T’Pau’s letter?”

“I did.” With great effort, Spock keeps his gaze on Sarek, where it’s safe. Sarek beings walking again, and Spock falls into step, elaborating, “I have already replied with both my response and my gratitude for such an honour.”

“That is good.” As they pass Jim, Sarek’s fingers reach out and absently slip through Jim’s blond hair. It’s over in a split-second, but it plays again in Spock’s mind; he wonders irrationally what that soft hair would feel like, for no reason whatsoever. He tells himself it would most likely be sticky and matted with sweat, but oddly, that does nothing to lesson his interest.

He tells himself he is being foolish, and the two Vulcans disappear back inside.

* * *

Spock has trouble sleeping. He attempts meditation, doesn’t do as well as he would like, considers staying up—sleep is not _vital_ for a Vulcan; not every night, anyway—but being alone in his childhood room with his thoughts is somewhat draining, and he would like to be unconscious. 

Eventually, he decides to fetch water mostly for something to do. He stays in his blue pajamas and pads through the home barefoot, leaving the lights off so as not to disturb his father. Often, Sarek will leave his bedroom door open a crack simply to let the breeze through; his quarters are in the middle of the home and have no natural windows to regulate airflow. As he spends the majority of his time in his study or the library, it doesn’t usually matter. Halfway there, Spock decides to take the long way around to bypass his father’s room all together. It would only remind him of primarily why he has trouble sleeping—sooner or later, Sarek will learn the truth of Spock’s ambitions.

In the kitchen, Spock fills a small glass of water and downs the contents. He’s momentarily torn on where to put the empty glass afterwards; recent habit has him reaching for the quick-wash dispenser, but in his own home, he’s always left the dishes about for slaves to handle. That would be proper. He thinks of Jim finding his glass in the morning, fingering it lightly and cleaning it out, then tucking it away. He leaves it where it is, right in the middle of the counter, so it can’t be missed and will be dealt with before Sarek ever finds it. When Spock glances out the window above the sink, he can see the stars.

He should be up there, he thinks. Vulcan is his home. It’s where he was born. But he’s never been certain that it’s where he wants to spend the majority of his days, and when he looks at the sky, he experiences a sense of longing that cannot be reasoned with. Per Surak’s teachings, Spock has tried very hard to spend his life pursuing logic and not his own instincts, but he finds that it ultimately seems to leave him perpetually dissatisfied. Though he would never admit it to his father, Spock imagines that his human half gives him these impulses, and he can’t be expected to ignore them all.

Sarek wouldn’t understand. Even if he did, he wouldn’t approve. Whether they express their feelings for one another or not, losing Spock’s mother was painful, and Spock isn’t ready to lose his father as well.

He bids the stars goodnight and removes himself from the window, gliding back out of the kitchen. He would like to sleep. In that interest, he takes the quickest route back to his own room, which passes his father’s.

As soon as he turns the corner in the hallway, he sees a sliver of low, yellow light streaming out of Sarek’s bedroom. Spock’s eyes remain fixed forward, prepared to sweep past.

He reaches the light, and he hears a sharp, muffled gasp, and on instinct, he looks aside.

He sees straight through the thin crack in his father’s door, and his feet stop, eyes opening wide.

He knows what slaves are for, of course. He isn’t as naïve as he once was. But it still hits him as a shock to see his father sprawled over Jim in Sarek’s bed, Sarek’s robes slipping down his back and Jim utterly bare. Jim’s legs are wrapped around Sarek’s middle and his hands clutch at Sarek’s shoulders, his head turned aside. Sarek is on all fours over Jim with his head buried in the pillow beside Jim, out of sight from the doorway. It’s obvious from the way his hips move that he’s _inside_ Jim, and Jim whines with each little thrust, even as one of Sarek’s larger hands covers his mouth. 

A spike of horror instantly crawls up Spock’s spine at seeing his father like this, but it’s _Jim_ that keeps him enthralled, makes him so unable to look away. His eyes glue to Jim’s face, stained rosy pink with a deep blush, eyes shut and eyebrows knit together. His blond hair is a sticky mess around his forehead, and Spock misses the sight of his lips, wide and plush, now stifled in Sarek’s palm. Jim’s whimpering noises are still audible, just dampened, and each one makes Spock want to squirm, though he knows he must be still, must be silent. This is... highly inappropriate. He shouldn’t be walking his father’s home this late, and he shouldn’t be stopping, he certainly shouldn’t be _staring_ , but he can’t help it—he’s never seen anything quite like Jim’s face, rapt with a clear mix of pleasure and pain. Finally, Sarek lets go of Jim’s mouth, using robe-covered arms to wrap beneath Jim’s back instead, forcing him to arch into the thrusts, and Jim’s head lolls back, mouth open and exposed. It looks _filthy_ ; he’s so much more debauched than any of the other slaves ever were: the picture of something truly impure but _fascinating._ Unholy temptation itself. Spock knows his father is old enough to have earned such pleasures, but to have a slave like _that_...

Jim’s struggling to be quiet: the Vulcan way. He slams his jaw shut suddenly, and then he’s biting his bottom lip, chewing it in a away that’s inexplicably sensual—so alluring that Spock lifts his own hand to his mouth. Sarek shifts and begins to sit up, still moving in and out of Jim, and Jim’s eyes flutter open to peer up at his master, dilated and half-lidded.

They flicker once to the doorway, catching on Spock, and Spock is pierced like a phaser, mouth dry and body shamefully aroused.

Spock turns and jerks out of sight. It takes a great deal of effort to walk away instead of run, particularly with the memory of too-blue eyes weighing him down to the earth.


	2. ~

As they’ve set aside no immediate plans, Spock decides that he may spend his first morning outside of the school system indulging in the practice of ‘sleeping in.’ His internal clock does, of course, rouse him at the correct time, regardless of the very little sleep he got, but he forestalls his shower.

Instead, he sits with his back against the headboard and props a PADD in his lap, composing a draft outline of how his conversation with his father is likely to go. He will need to express his desire to join Starfleet soon, and in order to do so, he thinks it best to have his argument well prepared. He does his best to anticipate his father’s counter-arguments and have the appropriate rebuttals in advance, but certain things are difficult to sway, such as the black-and-white concept of simple Vulcan pride. Their family is a very old, very noble one, and after the mess with Sybok they never speak of, Spock’s fate is more vital than ever. He carries the burden of his line on his shoulders, and that line has always been of _Vulcan_.

He’s still engrossed in his PADD when the doorbell of his room chimes, and Spock automatically calls, “Come in.” He straightens his back and covers the screen with his palm just in case, self-conscious of his state of undress. He’s stripped his shirt away under the morning sun through his high window, and though the blankets cover his lap, he’s still in his pajama pants. Fortunately, it’s not his father that comes through the door. 

It’s the blond slave from yesterday, carrying a tray loaded with breakfast. His eyes stay on the contents as he moves through the opening doors, as though worried he’ll trip and spill everything. It gives Spock a chance to study him unnoticed; he’s only in his skirt and collar again. Spock’s eyes linger on that collar, and a horrible memory of last night flashes through his mind, of seeing this gorgeous person pinned under the weight of Spock’s father. Jim reaches the bed and settles the tray on Spock’s lap, just as Spock moves his PADD aside. 

Jim takes a shallow seat on the bed, right beside Spock’s legs, and lifts his eyes. A part of Spock is surprised he didn’t imagine them; he’s never seen their shade on Vulcan, never anything so bright. Blond Vulcans are very rare, but blue eyes, clear as these...

Jim says, “My master asked me to bring you breakfast. I wasn’t sure what you’d like, but I know you’re half human, so...” He shrugs awkwardly, trailing off and looking aside before admitting, cheeks a little pink, “I settled on some breakfast from my home world. I’m not very good at Vulcan dishes. ...But if you don’t want it, I can try something else...” 

Spock takes a peripheral sweep of the bread and eggs. He lifts an eyebrow automatically; it is, indeed, hardly a Vulcan meal. But he’s eaten solely tradition food since his time at the Academy, and even back at home, though Sarek occasionally wished to honour Spock’s mother with human cuisine, Stonn was never particularly adept at cooking it. Soran might’ve been better, Spock thinks, but it was so long ago that it’s difficult to tell. 

For now, he picks up the humanized cutlery—a fork and a knife—and notes, “Last night’s meal was adequate.” Jim dons a small grin, looking back at him, and Spock, compelled to earn more of that radiance, finds himself adding, “This will suffice.”

“Good.” 

With that, Spock expects Jim to leave. He’s gotten approval; there’s no reason to stay and watch Spock eat. But for whatever reason, Jim doesn’t move. As Spock slices the bread into small fractions of itself, Jim continues, “Cooking’s not really my thing.” Spock lifts another eyebrow—slaves don’t usually presume to choose their ‘things.’ But then, Jim can’t be expected to act like the Vulcan slaves; he isn’t one. He seems far more... precocious. He stays sitting on the bed, idly watching Spock take the first bite, and casually asks, “Is there anything in particular I should make for you during your stay?” With a lilting half laugh, something a Vulcan slave, or any Vulcan for that matter, would _never_ make, Jim quips, “Or try to make, anyway?”

He smiles at Spock in a way that he simply _couldn’t_ be doing with Sarek; it wouldn’t be tolerated. Jim is shaping up to be... very interesting.

It’s a breath of fresh air, in a way, after the stifling atmosphere of the Academy. Even if Spock would never indulge in such loose behaviour himself. 

It occurs to him, too, that Jim must be very brave. He has no idea what Spock is like, and many masters would heavily punish their slaves for such wanton actions. As the son of Jim’s master, Spock would have that right. Still, Jim presumes to sit with him and eyes him cavalierly, and on the third bite of the toasted bread, Spock begins to grow self-conscious, even though it’s only a slave looking at him. He’s hyper aware of his nakedness, though of course, that’s foolish; Jim’s far more exposed than he is. He tells himself that he doesn’t need to dress for a slave, but at the same time, he sees Jim’s eyes raking over his own lithe form, and mainly to distract them both from those awkward implications, Spock says, “Thank you for the breakfast, Jim.” Sarek would think it illogical to show gratitude to a slave for simply completing their duties, but Jim clearly isn’t logical.

Jim grins very broadly and says, “You called me ‘Jim.’”

Spock hadn’t thought of it. He nods his head and moves on to try the eggs, sprinkled with typical spices and interspersed with several colourful vegetables. “My father informed me that that is what you prefer to be called.”

“It is. But he calls me ‘James’ anyway.”

“He is Vulcan. He sees no reason to label you as anything other than your given title.” The fact that Spock doesn’t follow the same ideal doesn’t mean he can’t defend Sarek’s position. He understands.

“But you do. Interesting.”

Spock looks up, the fork still between his lips. That should be his line. He wonders vaguely if he, as something in between the two races Jim must be accustomed to, seems as exotic to Jim as Jim does to Spock. 

Jim says a light, “Thanks.” Then, head tilting to the side, “You’re Spock, right? He doesn’t talk about you often, but more so than he talks about anyone else, if that makes any sense.” It does, and Spock nods his head. He’s almost done with his eggs, and he feels strangely compelled to offer Jim some of the remaining breakfast; it’s strange to eat with someone who isn’t doing the same. But then, he knows that would be incredibly improper. And Jim’s probably already eaten or about to. Sarek would never starve or mistreat his staff. More quietly, Jim says, “Your mother must’ve been a great woman.”

Spock’s hand halts. He looks up, but there’s nothing on Jim’s face but a gentle sort of sympathy and curiosity: all the exposed feelings of a human, primitive and... unseemly. But there’s something about that vulnerability that Spock finds...

This is an inappropriate strain of thought. The fact that Jim is different and intriguing is the same as the fact that he’s utterly _gorgeous_ , even more so under the soft morning sun. They’re irrelevant: things that can’t matter to Spock. Jim belongs to his father. How _delicious_ he looks beneath another man is none of Spock’s business, and Jim isn’t his to think about. He doesn’t answer. He picks away at his breakfast, until all that’s left are three pieces of toast. 

He’s picking up the first piece when Jim asks, a note of obvious interest in his voice, “You want to go to Starfleet?” Spock’s eyes snap to Jim’s. Jim explains, “Sorry, I looked at your PADD...”

In a heartbeat, Spock reaches sideways and turns it over, the blue screen shimmering against his bed sheets. He says sharply, “You must not tell my father of this.”

When Jim’s pretty mouth falls into a frown, Spock feels a pang of regret for his tone, but he can’t afford to take it back. He knows in his gut that a slave can’t be expected to lie to their master. But he’s both relieved and surprised when Jim nods. He can, at least, not bring the matter up. Then he says, not at all subservient like he should be, but simply one peer to another that went too far in an argument, “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to intrude. I just...” His eyes fall to Spock’s plate, frown deepening. “It’s a cool career choice.”

Spock nods tightly, though Jim isn’t looking to see it. Spock’s gone rigid, and though he’d like to eat all that Jim’s given him, he finds he’s lost the desire for the remaining two pieces.

He places his utensils down. There’s a part of him that inexplicably wants to keep Jim here, but there is no real reason to delay Jim’s parting. By all rights, Jim shouldn’t still be here at all; he should’ve left the tray and returned at a later time to retrieve the dishes. 

Instead, he remains sitting so very close, his hip brushing Spock’s leg through the blankets, and though it’s obvious Spock’s done, he doesn’t move. He waits for Spock to tell him, somewhat regretfully, “I am finished.”

Jim picks the tray up and says, “Okay.” He hesitates, and then he climbs off the bed. 

He walks towards the door, and Spock derives far too much shameful pleasure out of the look of his bared back, the elegant curve of his spine and the strength in his shoulder blades. The skirt hugs his hips too perfectly, his thighs far too enticing beneath it. Just before the doors would open for him, he turns. 

He’s biting his bottom lip. His eyes are clouded, and Spock frowns, unsure of what’s wrong, but sensing Jim’s worry. Jim opens his mouth once, closes it to bite his plush lip again, and then announces, “I’m sorry. But I think you should know I’ve been reading your letters. ...Your father asked me to, of course—well, to skim them—so I could sort through and prioritize them along with his other low-security work that I order for him. But I... I read yours properly.” After the confession, it looks like he might run, but he doesn’t. He’s a braver man than Spock is; he stands still, just before the doorway, awaiting his repercussions. 

Spock blinks in surprise. The notion should’ve occurred to him, he supposes. Unlike other parts of the Terran Empire, on Vulcan, slaves are mostly taught to read and write: many are used as makeshift attendants—the Vulcan people are too intellectually focused not to utilize such a tool. But somehow, he hadn’t ever thought of his writings reaching another’s eyes; sometimes he even questioned whether his father would read them or not. A part of himself wants to remind himself that Jim’s only a slave, and his knowledge of Spock’s more... personal thoughts... shouldn’t matter.

But the rest of him just sees it as _Jim_ knowing more of him. A part of him regrets that he can’t say the same; now he has a tenuous, one-way relationship with a man he’s bizarrely drawn to and knows nothing off other than personality inferences based on limited contact.

Eventually, he informs Jim as evenly as he can manage, “That is understandable.”

Jim’s frown lifts. Not quite a smile yet, but he licks his lips, and Spock’s eyes are instantly drawn to the movement—another blatant habit far too sensuous for daylight. He’s not sure Jim means it that way, but it is, to a Vulcan, very _tempting_ : a forbidden display. Jim adds tentatively, “I... I found your assessment of the Mrennenimian society fascinating. Your observations were so potent. I think... I think meeting new cultures really would be amazing.” As Spock’s eyes widen, shock mounting on every word, Jim’s cheeks are staining darker; he must know that he’s nearly speaking in blasphemy; he’s a slave, he’ll never see other worlds, and Spock was never meant to do any of that; his reports should be _dry_ not _potent._ Taking in a deep breath, Jim finishes, “I just wanted to say thank you. For giving me that insight. Even if you didn’t mean to. And I... hope you get a chance to write more papers like that in the future.”

Then, before Spock can reply, he’s turned on his heel and left through the opening doors. Even as they slide slowly closed behind him, Spock remains speechless. 

Apparently, Jim is smart as well as beautiful. ...And he’s interested in Spock’s writing. And other worlds. A precocious thing indeed...

Remaining _Vulcan_ in the presence of Spock’s father and his new aide has just become insurmountably more difficult.

* * *

Though all of the data is backed up by digital means, their home contains a library of more traditional scrolls and books: hardcopies of important texts from many different worlds. In Sarek’s ambassadorial profession, such physical reference often becomes necessary. Spock’s found it educational since a young age. A certain fondness also comes from the memory of his mother reading to him from old volumes; any of the fictional books present, he knows, are only from her influence.

Sarek is currently at his desk along the far wall, cross-referencing a P’nir bible with the trade agreement between them and the Hachi. Religious differences can be some of the most difficult to navigate, but Spock has complete faith is his father’s ability to smooth the situation; his diplomatic skills are legendary. 

Spock has no wish to disturb his father. He haunts the shelves for his own interest—though there was a similar structure at the Academy, it housed only Vulcan writings, and he was not permitted to simply stroll through and browse at his leisure. Here, he can follow his own whims, read what and where he likes, piece together strings of knowledge that might not necessarily wind up in a thesis. 

Currently, his attention’s transfixed on the teachings of an early Andorian profit, one who spoke primarily on the merit of the soul. Xe wasn’t particularly wide spread on Andor, but as they’re a militant species, that’s not terribly surprising, nor does Spock think hir popularity at all coincides with hir worth. 

Open to the middle of the book, scrolling a section on heedlessly flinging oneself into stimulating situations (a foolish but no less intriguing notion), Spock hears a noise behind him. The door, perhaps, and then footsteps. Caught between shelves, he glances at the end of the makeshift corridor. Jim passes by, pausing on sight. 

A scroll is bundled in Jim’s arms, clearly one from outside the library—perhaps a more commonly used one or a decorative thing—Jim must be fetching it for Sarek. But instead, he hesitates, ultimately wandering down Spock’s isle. 

Though this isn’t technically a _library_ , in the sense that there is no rule of silence, Spock keeps his voice low out of reverence to his father. Or perhaps a desire to not be overheard. He greets, “Jim.”

“Spock.” And then Jim asks with a hint of a frown, “I’m sorry, I probably should’ve asked this—is it alright if I just call you Spock? I know I should probably be adding ‘sir,’ but...” He trails off with no explanation, though Spock can imagine. Perhaps after reading Spock’s letters, he’s used to Spock’s singular name alone. Or perhaps he simply doesn’t want to bow unless made to, and Spock clearly isn’t going to enforce his rule. Spock simply nods, and Jim smiles.

Then he nods and proclaims, “That one’s good.” Spock glances down at the book in his hands. “The writing’s a little dry, though.” Perhaps at Spock’s questioning look, Jim chuckles quietly and explains, “I haven’t read them all, of course. Just a few here and there, when I get the chance. I tend to gravitate to the ones of other species, or at least, the ones translated into Vulcan or Empire Standard. But I’d kill for one of those Universal Translators they give in the fleet.” Spock lifts an eyebrow very high, and Jim hurriedly corrects, “That’s a human expression. I wouldn’t really kill. ...Not for that.”

For no particular reason, Spock contributes, “My mother worked on the Universal Translator project.” Then he shuts his mouth, feeling like he’s bragging. The temperature in his cheeks has inexplicably risen, but Jim’s just smiling.

“That’s really cool.” Spock nods tightly. And there’s nothing more to say, so when Spock doesn’t say anything, too awkward to do so, Jim turns as if to leave.

Spock stops him abruptly by asking, “You are interested in other species?” Which just sounds _stupid_ , because of course Jim is; he’s said as much twice. 

But Jim nods kindly and fills in, “I used to dream of space, when I was little. Before... well...” His head nods aside, gesturing vaguely into infinity. Spock supposes that means ‘before Jim was a slave.’ Colouring slightly, a darker shade of pink, Jim says, “But I just keep talking about myself, sorry.” Another laugh. “I guess you can add talking to cooking on my bad slave list.”

“You must be adequate overall,” Spock reasons, “or my father would not retain you.”

Jim blinks one eye at a time, and it takes Spock a moment to recall the human significance: a wink meant to convey... something. Jim responds in a deeper voice, something of a purr, “I’m good at _other things._ ” And with anyone else, Spock might wonder, but the seductive curve Jim’s body takes on and the way his tongue darts out to swipe over his bottom lip makes the meaning _very_ obvious. Spock’s body tenses; he forces his posture to straighten. He doesn’t want to react. Suddenly Jim’s nakedness is abundantly clear, and though the scroll clutched to his chest hides his nipples, the rest of his shoulders and arms and stomach are all fully exposed, his light skin showing the signs of a tan. Spock notices a few golden curls that just barely peek over the tip of Jim’s skirt—he hadn’t noticed them before; perhaps Jim’s skirt is looser today. It takes considerable effort to wrench his eyes back up, and a stab of embarrassment strikes him; this man belongs to his _father_.

Jim has an air of not quite belonging to anyone, collar or otherwise. It seems like he’s waiting for Spock to say more, but Spock’s mouth has become inconveniently parched, his tongue bizarrely too thick to move. So Jim just whispers, “Can I keep talking to you when I see you, even if it’s inappropriate?” 

Spock wants to say that he enjoys the opportunity to speak to someone with similar interests, someone with a refreshing point of view, someone that holds his attention so easily, but instead, he just nods. Jim nods back and brushes right past him; their arms slide over one another. Spock’s long sleeved shirt is far too thin.

The contact lingers with him, even as Jim turns the corner. He hears the continued footsteps, and then his father’s acknowledgement, and he knows that Jim’s delivered the scroll. The book in Spock’s hands, though interesting, is entirely forgotten.

But he’s worse than that, and he goes further. When he means to put the book away, he instead extracts another, opening a small hole to the other side, through which he has a skewed view of his father’s desk. He can see Jim falling to his knees at Sarek’s side. Spock’s mind plays out the movement, has Jim resting his head on Sarek’s knees, because that’s what Spock would want in Sarek’s place, but Jim remains upright. Sarek doesn’t move him. Sarek begins to scan the scroll.

A moment later, Sarek reaches out for Jim’s hair and strokes through it, not unlike an owner would pet a sehlat. Flashes of last night twist into Spock’s mind, and it turns his stomach. His blood seems to heat up, and he realizes with both confusion and surprise that he’s experiencing _jealousy._

He puts the books back onto the shelf and tries to take comfort in the fact that his father, a truly great man, deserves such an irresistible slave.

* * *

He returns to his quarters shortly and remains there throughout most of the day. Jim brings him lunch, talks to him briefly about the paper he’s writing—an extension on a subject breached only peripherally in one of his classes. But Jim can’t stay long; he has to wait on Sarek during all mealtimes. And any time that Sarek should wish, really. When he leaves, Spock doesn’t touch the food, even though the fact that _Jim_ made it for him gives it an oddly appealing glow.

His stomach is too unsettled. At first he thinks it might be guilt over his reactions to a slave: the physical manifestation of his _wrongness_. But as the tumultuous rumbling grows, he’s sure it must be more than that—he’s come down with something. What bug he could’ve caught in his father’s home, he has no idea. His immune system is usually excellent. He considers asking his father to alert a physician, but he doesn’t want to cause unduly trouble over what could be something passing and simple. For now, the symptoms are painful, but not overtly hazardous.

He spends a good deal of time meditating in the hopes of suppressing that pain, and it works, to an extent.

At dinnertime, Jim returns. He frowns at the full tray, and Spock opens his eyes to inform Jim, “I was not feeling hungry.” At the crease that forms in Jim’s forehead, presumably from needless worry, he continues, “Vulcans are able to go a considerable amount of time without sustenance.” But Jim doesn’t look entirely convinced. 

Fortunately, it’s not his place to argue. Instead, he tells Spock, “My master sent me to fetch you.” Though it’s a perfectly apt description, the term _my master_ in reference to Sarek makes Spock’s already clenched stomach tighten. Jim asks, “Are you alright to join him?”

Public affairs while sick aren’t any fun. But Spock’s duty to his father has nothing to do with his own comfort, and out of an ingrained desire to keep up appearances, he nods. “Perhaps my appetite will return.” Jim smiles lightly and waits in the doorway, while Spock slowly climbs off the bed, untwisting from his meditative pose. He stops to retrieve his sweater, bunched at the edge of the bed from where he’d discarded it, and he pulls it back over his head. While he smoothes it down, he doesn’t miss Jim’s eyes on him. 

As Spock joins him in the hallway and the two begin to walk, side-by-side, Jim nonchalantly comments, “You know, when I was reading your letters, I never thought you’d be... well, quite so handsome.” 

Spock’s eyes snap aside, though he manages to keep walking. “I mean,” Jim continues, “Yes, there are pictures of you around, but you’re younger in all of them.” Adding a grin, he laughs, in that sparkling way of his that always makes Spock slightly _uncomfortable_ in his own reaction, “You were an adorable kid, by the way.”

There’s a pause, in which Spock has no idea what to say. It takes effort to come up with a simple, “Thank you.” And then, solely to not sound vain, “I am sure you were as well.”

“Thanks, Spock.” They turn a corner. They’re walking slower than Spock normally would and, he thinks, slower than Jim would as well. Perhaps they’re mutually stalling; he doesn’t want to make the decision consciously. Jim tilts his head to the side, eyes fixed forward. “Though, I suppose I should’ve expected it. You look a lot like Ambassador Sarek, and he’s very handsome, so it only makes sense.” 

They enter the last hallway before the dining room, and Spock struggles to maintain a blank composure. He’s not sure how he feels about Jim thinking of his father as attractive. He supposes it was a compliment to himself as well, but...it _irks_ him. He tells himself that it’s good if it helps make Jim more comfortable in his role; Spock wants Jim to be happy.

He wonders if Jim can be happy, trapped here on Vulcan. And then he wonders if he can either. In a way, they’re both under his father’s captivity, all under the Terran Empire’s. Jim simply in a worse fashion. Spock stops walking just before the dining room. His father isn’t there yet—perhaps Jim will notify Sarek of Spock’s arrival. Spock just needs a moment to calm his ailing body, but Jim stays frozen with him.

Jim takes the opportunity to ask, very quietly, “If you do continue to study what’s out there, and you send my master messages about it... may I have your permission to continue to read them? I haven’t read anyone else like you. Your insight... I’ve really valued it.” His face is the most serious Spock’s ever seen it. The sincerity is firm—Spock knows, as impossible as it is, that should he deny Jim’s request, Jim will listen, even if it means failing a task for Sarek in the future.

But the thought of Jim reading about his discoveries, even if they’re small and limited to just this planet, is reassuring. There’s an ease Spock has with Jim that a man shouldn’t have with a slave, but he can’t deny what simply is. Jim’s presence is... enjoyable.

Spock tells him, “I would be pleased if you would.” And it might be too overt, might be inappropriate, but it’s the truth. Jim’s resulting smile makes it more than worth it.

Jim says, “I’ll go get your father. If you sit down, I’ll serve you in a moment.”

“Thank you.” Spock continues on into the dining room, soreness ebbing back and forth but soothed by his mind’s distraction.

* * *

The sickness continues long after dinner, and Spock begins to wonder if it really is a part of his mind. He can tell now that it’s stronger than just his confliction with Jim; perhaps it has something to do with the anxiety of telling Sarek of Starfleet. With that in mind, he pours over his PADD, sewing together what he hopes is an airtight argument, and then he takes a deep breath and leaves his room. 

It’s late, unfortunately, and there’s a good chance his father will be asleep. He’ll doubtless be expected to be in bed himself, or at least, not to disturb his father’s sanctity in these late hours. Nonetheless, he beelines for his father’s study; this is important.

There is no proper door on the study; there is no need for it. There are few rooms in a Vulcan home that actually require the privacy of sealing doors. Spock is quiet on his approach, though he’s sure it’s occupied, as the lights are all on. Still, if Sarek appears to be engaged in deep concentration, Spock will politely leave without ever uttering a word. 

Instead, he halts in the doorway, just barely around the corner, the sight before him freezing his feet in place.

Evidently, his father’s grown used to an empty home. When Spock was growing up, Sarek would’ve _never_ indulged in such actions outside of his room. Now, he’s in his chair, tilted mostly away from Spock, and Jim...

Jim is on his knees between Sarek’s legs. Spock can only just see the corner of his lips, stretched wide around what must be Sarek’s cock, Jim’s eyes closed in concentration and his cheeks flushed. His hands are on Sarek’s thighs, clinging to the parted robes, and one of Sarek’s hands is gently soothing back through Jim’s hair, encouraging his movement as he bobs up and down. There’s a wet slurping sound in the air, followed by the occasional sucking noise and Jim’s muffled groans, though Sarek is quiet. Spock has a horrible flashback to Jim saying how good he is at _other things._ Clearly, sucking cock is one of his skills. He moves on Sarek’s shaft like he was made for it, never pausing. It looks like he’s taking Sarek all the way to root—Spock imagines it pushing down Jim’s throat, weighing down Jim’s tongue, stretching Jim’s pretty lips—

Spock’s body temperature is spiking. He can’t help it. He knows he should leave, but he can’t bring himself to move, can’t look away from _Jim_ impaled on his father’s cock. It’s so, _so_ wrong to watch, but he can’t stop. Oral sex is a Terran form of pleasure that only a human slave would give—a Vulcan would consider it improper, _dirty_. And yet Sarek seems to be enjoying the ministrations, and Jim shows no misgivings. Spock knew of his father’s proclivity for humans, but this...

Spock tries not to look at what little of his father he can see. He watches only Jim’s face, even as his eyes peek half-open, peering down at the crotch his mouth is so busy with. His eyelashes flutter against his red cheeks—is he getting pleasure from the experience, too? Spock doesn’t understand how he could be, but then, Spock doesn’t understand the procedure at all. Jim doesn’t look distressed. He looks rapt with Sarek’s body; perhaps he’s happy with Sarek.

Or perhaps he just enjoys being on his knees, pleasing Vulcan men. _Handsome_ Vulcan men. Spock shivers, his fingers digging into his palms. Sarek makes a sudden noise, something small, perhaps a very thin, low moan. His long fingers tighten in Jim’s hair, and Jim’s pulled back, popping free of Sarek’s member with another squelching sound. His mouth stays very wide, lips stained with spit and rosy-pink, and he shuts his eyes just in time.

He’s splattered with a sticky, white spray. The seed that made Spock. He feels sick. 

As Jim begins to wipe away the globs and sensually lick at his fingers, Spock forces himself to leave. He knows he has to. He’ll talk to his father another time. If he sees any more of Jim... like that... sucking the seed of Spock’s family off his fingers...

Spock walks very swiftly, though the growing issue in his pants makes it difficult. His sickness is broiling tighter. He is a _very_ dishonourable child.

* * *

Alone in his room, Spock is gripped with the overwhelming urge to _touch himself_.

It’s disgusting. He doubts other Vulcans feel that way, though clearly, some have slaves to deal with their problems for them. Perhaps someday he’ll be successful enough to warrant a slave of his own, and then he’ll be allowed to indulge himself.

For now, this is unacceptable, and Spock rolls over to bury his face in the pillow, screaming into it. All he can think of is Jim’s pretty face, alternately pouring over his letters and _sucking his cock._ He’s never had an experience even close to that before. What would it feel like? He doesn’t know, and still he assumes good, better than good, amazing, especially with Jim, Jim and his pretty eyes and his gorgeous body and his penchant for knowledge and effortlessness of presence. Perhaps they’d read together first, or they’d sit outside and watch the stars. Spock could rub ice cubes into Jim’s skin to counteract the stifling heat, and then Jim would kiss Spock hard, kiss down his body and undo his pants, slip to his knees in front of Spock and...

Spock’s body is on _fire_. Part of it is pain, part arousal. His fists are clenched tightly in the sheets, but his hips can’t control themselves; he humps the bed like a mindless le-matya in heat. He feels just as ravenous. He’s never met anyone like Jim. Never. He knows he never will again. He doesn’t know how he knows, but... he growls in frustration; why does such a man have to belong to his _father_? If only Jim could be younger, be sold just when Spock’s old and successful enough to buy his own slave...

He doesn’t know what he’d do with a slave, and he’s not even sure Jim _fits_ that, but they couldn’t have anything else. They couldn’t have anything now. Spock ruts into the mattress and comes to the image of Jim’s face drenched in cum. 

He can smell his own shame in the air and curls up tightly under the blankets, positive he’ll eventually be disowned.


	3. ~

The morning is unbearable. Consciousness _burns_ , and Spock fights to lose it, curling up in bed and burying himself like a child, cocooned in all the blankets. But his skin prickles too much and he worries that the bed will burst into flames, so he unravels minutes later to gasp at the air. His lungs aren’t functioning properly; he wonders if he’s dying.

By the time the pain subsides enough to rise from bed, Spock’s on the verge of hurling. He hobbles into the washroom and stares at himself in the mirror above the sink, noting the dark circles beneath his eyes and the green veins that seem to ripple along his temples. He has an all-consuming headache. This is inappropriate. He touches his forehead and feels an odd abyss of _emptiness_. Something is missing, but he doesn’t know what. 

He totters back into his bedroom and climbs beneath the covers, stripping away his pajama shirt and twisting into a pose of meditation. His mind is racing through his symptoms and the possible diagnosis, but the more he thinks on it, the more frightened he is by the results, and he closes his mind to the prospect. He tries to drift away, though suffering keeps him tethered. 

Too soon, Jim comes to bring him breakfast. Spock’s repressed what he can, but it flares up again at the sight of _James_ : a different kind of heat. When he looks at Jim, stepping through his door, his teeth grit and his fists clench, longing to _hold_ —he wants to close his hands around Jim’s waist and hold Jim to him, tight enough to trick their bodies into functioning as _one_.

This insanity is unacceptable. He uses ever ounce of his Vulcan training to remain proper, to not spill over with his wild emotions. If his father hears of this...

Jim brings him the tray and lays it on his lap, sitting on the bed like always. Jim opens his mouth and gestures at the food, as though to explain its contents, but instead his eyes fall over Spock’s bare chest, rising and falling too harshly with his laboured breath, and up to his face, where he’s sure his eyes betray him. 

Jim frowns and murmurs, “You look ill.”

Spock insists tightly, “I am fine.” His throat is a desert. He plucks the water glass off the tray and downs a healthy amount, looking away, but he’s still all too aware of how Jim’s hip is nudged against his leg, the blanket the only barrier between them. Jim’s _so close_. Jim made him this meal, served it to him, nurtures him, takes care of him—Jim lays a hand on Spock’s knee too casually, leaning forward. 

“Are you sure?” Concern is all over Jim’s face, but he couldn’t possibly understand. He doesn’t know what Spock must be and how _difficult_ it is sometimes, how much harder it is now. Sometimes, when their eyes lock, it feels like they’ve known each other _forever_. But they haven’t. Jim doesn’t know him, can’t understand. Spock shakes his head stubbornly. 

He hisses, “I am _fine_ ,” and reaches for the tyaro squares, spearing one on a single chopstick. He lifts the cube to his mouth and tears away at the skin, feeling vaguely like the predators his ancestors were before Surak’s wisdom. He tries not to look at Jim, but out the corner of his eye, Jim’s frown is deepening. 

Jim reaches out, and Spock jerks away, growling in the back of his throat. Jim stills while Spock pants and struggles for rationality, forcing himself to sit up again, to lift his head and be the proud, noble son of Sarek, ambassador of Vulcan. Jim should stop, but he doesn’t. He moves his hand tentatively forward, until his fingers are pressing lightly into Spock’s forehead. 

Spock shivers at the contact, so incredibly _intimate._ Jim can’t know. But to a Vulcan... it’s like Jim is piercing right into his mind, and he opens too willingly—he feels a spark of connection that should never, ever arise for a human. For a slave. He feels it nonetheless. He wants to pull Jim’s hand away and bite Jim’s palm, mark Jim properly...

Spock’s eyes are closed and he’s trembling. He wonders bitterly what Sarek has done with Jim’s hands. Finally, Jim retracts his, and Spock’s eyes slowly open. 

Jim mumbles softly, “This better not be over telling your father about Starfleet. Seeing the stars is a noble profession.” Spock nearly laughs; _tell Sarek that._

He shakes his head and grunts, “No, it is not that.” He plucks another square off the tray. He isn’t hungry, but he needs to keep his hands busy, lest they tremble and fly for a man he can’t have. The food tastes like ash in his mouth, but still he wants Jim to cook his every meal...

“It is. I think he’ll understand. I know he can be stubborn, but...” Jim trails off lamely, his fingers gently petting Spock’s legs through the blanket. It’s oddly... soothing. “He loves you, you know. In his own way. I’m sure of that.” Jim looks so sincere, but the news shocks Spock, and he can’t trust it. 

Jim is staying again. Spock thinks of sending him away; a slave shouldn’t stay while their superiors eat. Spock should send Jim away. He _can’t._ He idly stirs the broth in the little bowl at the side of his tray, warm and orange. He needs to steer the subject away, but his tongue’s like lead. 

Jim’s hand stops moving, and Spock, jolted by this, grunts, “Thank you.” He swallows another square and elaborates, “For the meal.”

Half a grin twitches onto Jim’s face. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve been picking the menu myself. If you have any preference...”

But Spock shakes his head and says, because it feels _right_ , “I will follow where you lead.” Jim’s eyebrows lift, but his smile becomes full.

When the cubes are gone, Spock places down his chopsticks and takes the bowl in both of his hands. He downs it quickly, too quickly—nearly chokes—fights to maintain composure and sets it back down. Jim licks his lips, though Spock is the one that should, and Spock _stares_ at Jim, struggling to breathe. 

He bites out, “You must not tell my father of my condition.” Which is as much as admitting that he’s nowhere near _fine_ , but the pain is enough without shame to match. Jim frowns. 

He doesn’t answer, but he collects the tray, and he slips off the bed. When he stands, his torso is caught in the light of the morning sun streaming diagonally through Spock’s windows, and his skin shimmers in the light, calling out for Spock’s touch. If Jim were Spock’s slave, Spock would have him sit by the bedside and read to him, interesting papers and discoveries, things to delve into science, far, far away.

But Jim isn’t his, and Jim leaves through the sliding doors, leaving Spock to drown.

* * *

He knows what this is.

It’s become undeniable. 

The blood fever is gaining on him. There’s little he can do. He doesn’t dare venture out of his room, and he soothes himself with the knowledge that Sarek wouldn’t come to visit him, never does, wouldn’t have to—Jim would fetch him. _Jim_... 

Spock gasps, collapsing over the sink in the bathroom. He never liked to think about what would happen when this seized him. But he supposed, once or twice, that it would be someone else he’d think of... he knew it wouldn’t be a woman, but perhaps Suval, perhaps Stephen, perhaps even Stonn—an inappropriate choice, of course, but he’d fantasize about ordering Stonn into his room at night, having the slave alleviating all his troubles, then slipping away, never to speak of them again... that isn’t how it would work, of course, but he’s been naïve...

He stumbles back into the bedroom and fishes in his bag for a PADD. Perhaps he can research other remedies. Some have been known to meditate the fever away, he thinks, though he knows it’s very rare. _If he can just_...

Then his doors open without any warning, and Jim walks through them, holding his tray. His skirt is a tiny, tan thing today, blending in with his fair skin, exposed everywhere except the hollow of his throat, where his adam’s apple bobs against his collar. He looks at Spock, and Spock...

Spock _snaps_. He all but flies across the room, lunging at Jim and knocking the tray aside—he slams Jim against the wall. The dishes go clattering to the floor, food toppling over, but the only thing he’s hungry for is right beneath his fingertips—he’s ravenous for the taste of _Jim_ , and he’s thought of nothing else for hours. He has Jim’s shoulders beneath his fingertips, Jim’s arms frozen in surprise, and he shoves his crotch against Jim’s, groaning in delight—their stomachs brush, both exposed, soft skin on skin, and Spock is painfully hard against the bulge in Jim’s skirt, wanting Jim to be hard for him too.

He looks at Jim’s face, Jim’s gorgeous eyes and pretty mouth, lips parted and eyelids lowered. Jim’s hands lift to Spock’s shoulders, holding him back. 

Jim throws himself away from the wall, shoving Spock back, and he slams their heads together, tilting just in time for their mouths to collide. Spock gasps, and Jim’s tongue dives into his mouth—Jim kisses him _hard_ , fierce and demanding. A hand slips around to his hair, fisting in the back of it, holding him in. Jim sucks on his tongue and teeth scrape his bottom lip, and he moans filthier than he ever has in his life.

Then he pulls away, staggering and speechless. But impressed with Jim’s strength. Jim stares at him, breathing just as hard. 

Jim wipes his wet mouth off on the back of his hand and mumbles, “You’re in _pon farr_.” It’s a simple statement, not a question.

“I am sorry.” Spock’s panting harder and feels like he might hyperventilate; he repeats, “I am sorry.” He shakes his head. He means to demand, a master’s word to a slave, but he only begs, voice pleading, “Do not tell my father.” He can’t know. He _can’t_ know. Jim shakes his head back.

“He’ll worry, and if he asks, I can’t lie to my master—”

“ _Please_ ,” Spock nearly cries. “You do not understand—”

“He can help,” Jim persists.

“No!” Spock growls, harsher than he means to, “He will only ship me off to some Vulcan woman I have never met and will not want, and I will be tethered to her, to Vulcan—I will _never_ be able to join Starfleet.” He’s trembling.

He wants to throw Jim to the floor right now and rip that useless skirt right off and feel Jim’s legs wrap around him, kiss Jim senseless; he would happily be tethered to _Jim_ and take off for a starship, leave this whole wretched planet behind—

Jim looks so _torn_ , but he finally gulps and nods. Spock hisses, “Promise me you will not tell him.”

Jim, miraculously, breathes, “I promise.” Then, as Spock turns and takes a step, tries to extricate himself from this mountain of temptation, Jim calls, “Spock...” Spock’s hands cover his face, crushing in on his smoldering head. Jim sighs.

When he looks around, Jim is bending to retrieve the fallen dishes, scooping up the mess of food. Thankfully, water is the only liquid. Spock licks his lips and manages to say, “Take it. I am not hungry.” And though Jim looks worried, he listens. 

He takes the bundle and heads for the door, but he pauses in it. He tells Spock, “My master will want you for dinner.” And Spock nods; he already knows. _Jim’s master._

Once Jim’s gone, Spock tears one of his pillows to shreds. He’d rather punch a hole in the wall and have the scars on his knuckles to show for it, but he’s too deathly afraid that Sarek will hear.

* * *

Composing himself enough to attend dinner is a tremendous struggle, one full of blinding pain and searing confusion and one failed meditation attempt after the other. Finally, he jerks himself off in the bathroom to the thought of Jim sucking his cock: a mindless fantasy in which Sarek’s ordered Jim to please his son. Spock comes nothing but guilt.

Spock has a shower and washes his face and repeats a child’s mantra in his head over and over, concentrating on one step after another. Jim comes to get him, and Spock, gritting his teeth so tight that he thinks they might crack, follows Jim out the door. 

His sweater is making his skin crawl. He’s too warm for it. The blood fever is aptly named. He can smell Jim in the air every step of the way: a musky, masculine aroma that drives his senses wild. He keeps his eyes focused on the collar around the back of Jim’s neck—a symbol of his father—a chilling reminder. 

Sarek’s already at the table when Spock arrives. They sit across from each other as usual, and Jim serves them a cold salad with li-rensu dumplings. Sarek speaks coolly of his work, but Spock is so busy concentrating on _not exploding_ that he barely listens. 

Eventually, Sarek asks, “Spock, are you paying attention to me?” Spock feels five years old. He shakes his head.

He apologizes brusquely, “I am sorry, Father. My mind was... elsewhere.” He’s immensely grateful that Jim doesn’t stay with them at dinner. 

Spock’s only eaten one dumpling and shifted his salad around. Jim returns to fill their water, and his raw scent wafts into Spock like poison; Spock nearly convulses. The blood fever grips him and refuses to let him go. 

He pushes his plate away, wincing at the loud rattling of dishes hitting one another, and announces, “I am not hungry. May I be excused, Father?” He doesn’t want to look up and meet Sarek’s gaze, but he knows anything else will only render suspicion.

Sarek merely lifts an arched eyebrow. Otherwise, his face is a mask. Spock knows him well enough to hear the accusation when he speaks. “Your concentration is lacking, and there is no reason to end our dinner so early. Are you well, my son?” Spock’s blood, boiling on the outside of his veins, runs cold within. He’s sure he looks hideous. 

He doesn’t know what to say, what to do, but he opens his mouth anyway. 

He’s shocked when Jim cuts him off, still hovering next to the table with the water jug in hand. “I’m sorry, master. I think... I think I might’ve left the milk I served him for lunch out too long. I... I might’ve made him sick.” And he licks his lips before hanging his head, looking incredibly _guilty_ for someone that’s done nothing wrong. ...Other, than of course, lying to his master. Spock wracks his brain, but he’s sure Jim didn’t serve him any milk for lunch. And he knows that’s not what this is. He can’t understand why Jim would do that for him, but as much as he gapes at Jim, Sarek looks at him with veiled surprise.

After a moment, in which Jim simply stands awaiting his punishment, Sarek says, “You have never failed me like this, James.”

Jim nods. He looks duly upset. Spock wants to speak the truth, wants to protect Jim, but the truth is too grave, and his mouth doesn’t seem capable of speech. Jim tells the floor, “I’m sorry, master. It won’t ever happen again.”

Sarek inclines his head. He seems to be thinking. In that minute, Spock is terrified he’ll deduce the truth, but when he turns to Spock, it’s simply to ask, “Shall I call the physician?”

Spock shakes his head and says truthfully, “This is not something to concern them with.” He has to pause between thoughts—it’s difficult to manage long strings of words. He has to find the correct placement and usage of them in his head; a Vulcan should not lie, and never to their father. A few seconds later, he settles on, “It would be best if I simply returned to my room.”

Sarek looks between Spock and Jim. Jim is now holding the jug close to his chest, both Sarek and Spock’s glasses full. Spock won’t use his. Finally, Sarek gestures Spock’s dismissal, and Spock, torn between staying to protect the man that protected him and bolting, forces himself to flee.

* * *

Sleeping is an insurmountable feat that he’s sure he’ll never accomplish.

The light of T’Rukh is a warm glow through the blinds, and the otherwise-darkness of his room is warm as the sun. Spock’s already stripped away all his clothes. He has the blankets up to his chin anyway. His eyes are tightly shut, and he tries, again and again, to clear his mind. 

He remembers vividly being six years old, sitting on a mat across from his father, being taught how to meditate. Sarek was kinder, then. Or maybe it’s Spock’s imagination. He thinks they were closer. Back when he was too young to stray far from his father’s side...

He’s too old now for his father to be enough. He wants more in his life. He wants a partner to sit by his side, to discuss the universe with him and provide him a different point of view, nurture his differences and make him feel _loved_. He wants an adventurer, someone who wants more, who wants to see everything and would do so with him, and then who would come back, and fall into his arms, into his bed, would press their fingertips together and meld into _one_. Such a person shouldn’t exist, by all rights. Not in their Empire. But he knows he’s found that person, so unattainable, and his eyes are wet from the want to cry.

The doors hiss open suddenly, and Spock stiffens in his bed, rolling onto his back and jerking up a second later. The object of all his desires is slipping through the door, walking closer, steps never faltering. Jim reaches the bed and climbs straight onto it, and he straddles Spock’s legs; Spock falls slowly back to the pillows—he must’ve gone mad, and now he’s hallucinating. 

He can smell Jim, feel Jim’s warmth, and it _feels_ real. It’s more likely the madness has him. Jim is naked. His skirt’s gone, and his bare crotch is a magnet for Spock’s yes: a pretty, human cock and a nest of gold curls, smooth skin and tight, shaved balls. The edges of his hips are red, and when Spock shifts his head, he can see that the cheeks of Jim’s ass are stained—he’s been spanked, maybe paddled. He leans over Spock on all fours, face so much more _beautiful_ than anything Spock’s dreams could’ve conjured. 

“Take me,” he whispers. As Spock’s eyes widen, unable to believe what he’s hearing, Jim leans down, elbows bending, and Spock thinks they’re going to kiss, but Jim just closes his eyes and presses his forehead down into Spock’s—Spock gasps at the rush of contact. It’s like he can feel Jim’s mind through his skull, the essence of all Jim is. It prickles where they touch, as though sparks are crackling everywhere they join. Spock’s eyes are half lidded: all he can see is Jim’s face. “For _pon farr_ ,” he murmurs. “Please take me.”

It’s all Spock can do to stay _sane_.

His heart is pounding right through his side, his lungs convulsing, and his eyes sting, blurred. The shock has sealed him in place, but the reaction to Jim’s words burn hot in his blood. He forces his lips to part, growling so much more animal than he means to, “I will not do that to you.”

“Do it,” Jim hisses, just as fervent. His hips press down suddenly, grinding into Spock’s through the blankets: only that one, minute layer between them, and Spock is already hard, so _hard_. Jim’s stiffening against him, rubbing into him, and he keeps doing it as he insists, “I’m offering myself to you. ...I know I’m not my own to give, but I don’t care.” Spock wants to laugh without any mirth; Sarek couldn’t possibly know that Jim is here, and he’d _never_ allow it. No sane Vulcan would. “You need to mate with someone, Spock...”

 _His name on Jim’s tongue._ It reverberates through him like liquid pleasure, as powerful as the feeling of their bodies pressed tight. His fingers lift to the edges of the blanket, but hesitate, trembling, held back. He licks his lips and tries to explain, “It is intense. It is for life. It is profound, and it would burn, and you are only a human...”

He can feel Jim’s breath dancing across his lips. “I don’t care.” But his eyes part, just slivers, blue things to peer back into Spock’s. Time may as well have stopped between them. So quiet that Spock can barely hear it over the pounding in his ears, Jim says, “If you want me, that is. I _want_ to give myself to you. I want to help you. I want to know more of you. I want to spend time with you. I... I know we haven’t had that long, but I’ve seen enough to know that I don’t want to lose you to some other faceless woman. I don’t have anything to give you other than this, but if you’ll have me, for at least tonight and every moment I can get away, I’ll be yours.”

Spock shivers. It’s his turn to close his eyes, and he squeezes them tight, the moisture thickening. His body is starting to pulse to life, shaking and rippling; he’s so overwhelmed. When he licks his lips, his tongue hits Jim’s, and he makes a choking noise, broken off before he manages a hoarse whisper. “I would be honoured to have you...” _So_ honoured—he doesn’t care if Jim’s a slave; he couldn’t find a better mate in the whole universe, he _knows_ that—it doesn’t matter how he knows. He doesn’t even think it’s the _pon farr_ —it’s the fit of Jim against him. “...But you belong to my father...”

When he looks again, Jim’s smiling sadly. He mumbles, “I don’t think Sarek would want me to let his son suffer like this.” He slips his hands over Spock’s, fingers encasing his, firmly holding onto the blanket. Spock isn’t so sure. Sarek might prefer him to die, rather than bring shame to the family, but it doesn’t matter. Jim isn’t here because of that death, Spock knows. It’s so much more than that between them, as impossible as it is, and Spock remembers his ancestors, of the ancient times on Vulcans, of the legends of rare, predestined bondmates, always meant to be together. Jim isn’t Vulcan. It doesn’t matter.

Jim begins to guide the blanket down, and Spock can’t worry about his father anymore. He doesn’t care what the Empire says. Jim’s given himself over, and that’s the only authority Spock’s primitive state bows to. He moves with Jim, scrunching down the fabric between them.

They start slow. They’re exposing a little bit of skin at a time, smooth patches to press into one another, broad shoulders and taut chests, Jim’s rosy nipples and the lines down his stomach, then the slight scratch of hair between his legs. Spock’s feet start to help, and then they’re kicking the blanket away, shoving the wretched fabric away from them, and they’re both naked together, stripped bare. Spock’s fingers slip around Jim’s neck, and it’s wrong, so very _wrong_ ; he shouldn’t do this; it’s a capital offense and he has no business even knowing how, but this is his _mate_ even before they’ve begun, and Spock knows how to free him. Spock unclips the collar and lets it slide from Jim’s neck, falling to land against Spock’s collarbone while Jim gasps, watching Spock with wide eyes. 

Spock tosses the collar to the floor. Tonight, Jim belongs to no one, except for the immeasurable way that they’ll own one another. 

Jim bends to kiss him, fastening their lips together, already open. Spock’s tongue slithers out on instinct and finds Jim’s waiting; they collide and they move and they dance, wet and warm between them, so hot that Spock idly wonders if his skin’s turning red to match the fire below. His hands ghost back up Jim’s sides and wrap around Jim’s shoulders, cradle the back of his neck, pull him in. Jim’s kiss is almost hesitant at first, but only barely, and then it’s more and more, until he’s grinding Spock’s skull down into the pillow, and Spock can hear the shuddering breaths through his nose, feel the will to meld them together. Jim kisses him and kisses him, and Spock keens into Jim’s mouth; the fever’s coming undone.

He didn’t think it would be like this. He thought... he thought when he got _Jim_ , he’d throw Jim against the wall again and _fuck_ him, bruise him and scratch him and devour him whole, and it’s like that, in a way; all the want is there. But he’s not so lost. Having Jim’s arms, willingly and right, tempers the storm; his body uncoils, relaxes as much as it can, secure in the reassuring presence of his mate. He savours every kiss they share, every last one, and for a time, it’s just those kisses and exploring hands. They’re slowly touching—arms, chests, thighs, sides, everywhere they can reach—learning each other’s bodies. Jim slides ten fingers through Spock’s sweat-matted hair, and Spock cups both cheeks of Jim’s ass, squeezing enough to make Jim gasp into his mouth. Jim’s flesh is so _tender_ , warm from being punished—a punishment he endured for _Spock_. Spock kneads the wounded skin and croons into Jim’s mouth, while Jim presses up into his touch, falling back a moment later to let their dry shafts grind together. It chafes, but it’s worth it. Jim’s _so worth it_. Jim moves above him with the practice of a well-trained slave, but the spontaneity and curiosity of a first time lover. Jim’s thumbs fall along the curved shells of Spock’s ears, and Spock finally breaks their mouths apart to moan—he’s never experienced anything in his life that felt anywhere near as _good_ as the way Jim’s hands feel on him. 

He spreads his legs around Jim’s body while his knees lift, blanketing Jim’s sides. He wraps around Jim’s hips and bucks up into Jim with everything he has, earning a groan loud enough to make him shiver. Jim humps him back, shoving him hard into the mattress, all heat and pressure. Spock bites Jim’s bottom lip and catches it in his teeth. 

Spock lets go and rolls Jim over suddenly, taking him to the other side of the bed, slamming him down. Spock’s scattering kisses all over Jim’s face and neck before he can get any reaction, but Jim simply curls around him, stroking his now-exposed back and moving to try and kiss him. Spock lets himself be caught, even as he sets to grinding their crotches together relentlessly. Every little centimeter of Jim delights him, but the shaft of Jim’s cock hits him especially hard, fogs his head and drives him wild. He wants to be _inside_ his lover’s body, and he wants to take Jim in his. In more ways than one. 

More and more touching and kissing and grinding, and Spock trails his kisses away from Jim’s mouth, growling when Jim tries to follow him. He knocks their heads together and uses his nose to try and turn Jim away, long enough for him to fiercely ask, “May I join our minds?” Because he knows this man is his mate, and it’s painful for them to be apart, and all he’s ever wanted is this one perfect person in his arms...

Jim feels it too. There’s nothing else in his eyes. He nods. He’s panting against Spock’s cheek. He says, “Yes, fuck, _yes_ ,” and he turns to face Spock so hard that Spock’s rolled half off. Jim adjusts instantly, and Spock holds onto him, scrabbling to keep their legs intertwined and their hips together. They lie side by side in the sheets, breathing so hard. Jim pushes their foreheads together, their noses touching and Spock’s bangs sliding into his eyelashes. 

Spock’s fingers splay against Jim’s face. It’ll be his first mind meld. He knows of them, of course. He’s studied them. His father’s explained them to him. He draws on none of that. His instinct alone is enough; all that he is is crying to be a part of Jim. Jim’s hand lifts to cup Spock’s cheek. There’s no telepathy in his fingertips, but the sensation is just as intimate, just as wonderful. Spock sucks in a breath.

He lets it out and he ebbs forward through his fingers, edges back and relaxes at the same time, taking Jim into him, pressing himself forward. They’re a slow-spilling ocean, pouring into the same pool. Spock sews them together: two parts of one whole.

Spock knows as soon as he’s started that he’s found his perfect match, some inexplicably, impossibly how; of all the people in the universe, the one that’s meant solely for _him_ slipped into his bedroom, ready for everything to come. Just as easily, he knows who this man is. He knows everything there ever was to know about _James Tiberius Kirk_ , his _Jim_ , and in Jim, Spock knows his future.

Jim’s head is a swirling tornado of desire, wrapped in human worries and fears, an avalanche of emotion that Spock’s always had but never truly understood. He knows each of Jim’s thoughts as well as his own, and he knows what Jim feels; he’s inside Jim, feeling his own fingertips against Jim’s skin, feeling the broiling heat and the fast-beating heart in Jim’s chest. Jim’s nervous but still so startling sure: brave and steadfast and here for all of it, meeting Spock back—Spock can feel Jim’s presence in his own mind, and he cherishes that bond. He fans it and helps it grow, encompassing everything. Their consciousness sways between them, flowing freely through everywhere they touch. 

Even when Spock’s fingers slowly fall away, the connection holds strong between them, and he can feel Jim whisper in his mind, _Spock... Spock, I can feel you all over me._

 _I am here, t’hy’la,_ Spock purrs without voice, nuzzling his face into Jim’s, knowing Jim can understand all his words, all his meaning. _You are with me, too._

 _We’re... we’re bonded, now._ It’s a statement, not a question, and Spock nods his head against Jim’s. They kiss again, like sealing vows. Jim’s fingertips run along Spock’s temples, soothing and sweet, caressing his points of entry. 

They kiss more, and it builds. More and more, and their bodies work back into fervor, rutting and touching. Without breaking away, Spock cups Jim’s head and waist and he rolls Jim over, rolls on top again, and Jim lets him stay there, just kissing him back and pleading in Spock’s head, _Spock... take me. Please..._

 _I will, t’hy’la,_ Spock promises. Their new language lets them keep kissing no matter what they have to say, and Spock takes full advantage. He wishes he’d known Jim sooner, done this before, already known the feel of Jim’s mouth, but he didn’t, and it’s all new. He’s kissing to make up for all the time they lost. He pushes a hand between their mouths only long enough to wet it, and then it’s disappearing, running down Jim’s body, trailing spit through their sweat, until he’s reached Jim’s crotch. He means to bypass, means to reach Jim’s entrance—he’s _desperate_ to mate—but his thumb brushes Jim’s cock, and he detours instead. He grabs it and squeezes it and drinks Jim’s moan, and he pumps it and runs his fingers all over it—mapping more of Jim’s body. Some other time, when the fever doesn’t have him, he needs to do this properly. He’ll lay Jim down and worship Jim’s cock, watch it up close and kiss it and caress every groove. For now, he moves past, beyond Jim’s balls and down the crack of Jim’s ass. 

Jim’s hips jerk as soon as Spock taps his hole, and he clings to Spock’s shoulders and moans, “ _Spock_...”

Spock rubs circles around Jim’s tiny, puckered entrance, surprised to find it wet, and Jim slams their foreheads together, surging through, _I came prepared for you, t’hy’la._ The pronunciation is perfect; Jim’s plucked the word right from Spock’s head, and it’s perfect for this, for them, sounds right on his proverbial tongue. _I knew I wanted you, and I’d hoped you’d take me..._ Jim groans and arches into Spock, hole fluttering beneath Spock’s touch, shuddering open. _I’m so glad I was right..._

 _You are beautiful,_ Spock breathes. He pushes the tip of his finger inside, and Jim’s ass welcomes him, sucks him further in, slick and hot. _I wanted you from the moment I saw you._

_I wanted you from the first time I read one of you letters. You aren’t like anyone else I’ve ever met. I wish I could have you always..._

Spock quiets, _Shhhhh._ Because there’s no use thinking about that, and in his state, he _can’t_. The thought that his bondmate won’t always be in his arms is something he can’t fathom. He soothes Jim with his mouth and works his finger in and out of Jim’s body, rocking in to the knuckle and out to the tip, and he adds a second, scissoring and coaxing Jim’s velvety walls open.

Jim begs, _I’m ready. Spock, I’m ready, just take me, please... I want you so much... I can barely stand for us to be apart._

 _Me too, Jim._ But only after a third finger does Spock pulls his hand loose, and then he’s adjusting, lining up. Jim’s knees pull back and fall apart, legs lifting off the bed and wrapping around Spock’s waist. They pull him in tight. The head of Spock’s dick, pulsing and already leaking, presses against Jim’s rear, between Jim’s cheeks. Spock sucks in a breath, and he dives in. 

Bliss explodes between them, rippling along the bond like lightening, and Spock pushes, pushes more, the tip’s inside, and he pushes _more_ and Jim takes it. Jim’s ass is ecstasy itself. It’s stifling hot and soft and smooth and it sucks at him with tremendous pressure; it’s tight and it squeezes so firm around him, wet and beautiful. Spock feels like’s going mad again, but it’s an insanity he wants to lose himself to, wants to drown in. He’s hovering over Jim, barely able to breathe. He’s never felt anything like this in his life, not even close. He can feel Jim’s body alive and _good_ around him, and through Jim’s mind, he can feel the pleasure of being _taken_. When he’s sliding inside, he’s consumed with just their little world. 

It’s only them. It’s the two of them in this bed, and the rest of the universe fades away around them. Jim finds Spock’s wrists and slips into his palms, holds their fingers together, two on each hand, and he caresses Spock’s skin; Spock shivers and moans and nearly sobs with how good it is. His hands are sensitive; any Vulcan’s are, but Jim stimulates them with skill and respect and love, so much _love_. He’s as deep as he can be inside Jim, his balls squished tight between them. He tries to break one hand away, and Jim grabs it tightly, groaning, “What are you doing...?”

“I’ll touch you,” Spock promises, breathless. He nuzzles into Jim’s face and nips at Jim’s jaw, murmuring through the haze of lust that’s melting him whole, “I want to please you like you please me...”

“Don’t, _please_. I’ll come. I’ll come so soon. Spock... I... I can barely take you now...” And Spock understands, he knows.

This is his first time, but it’s not Jim’s. Jim’s been fucked and used all his life, but this is the first time he’s ever _made love_. Wanting Spock is it’s own aphrodisiac. Jim’s so close just from their mental bond alone, and Spock pushes through that and soothes, _Then I will not touch you there, t’hy’la. Only where you wish. I want this to last..._

 _I want this to be forever_. Jim shivers. Jim’s fingers pet Spock’s, and Jim bucks his hips; Spock gasps, seeing white for a moment. _We’ll do it again. And again. Over and over and over, burn our marks into each other. Take me first..._

 _Yes,_ Spock moans; he understands. _And then you will take me. I will be yours as much as you are mine. I am yours. Jim..._

But Jim’s cut off in little gasps and groans and whimpers of delight; Spock’s hips have begun to rock. He works up to a heady speed of _in_ and _out_ , pulling up and pushing down. He could be fiercer, could be dangerous, could bruise Jim with the force of his love, with his Vulcan strength, but instead, the pace is pre-measured. He goes at the perfect amount. He takes Jim with love and care and shivering adoration that makes him want to cry. They kiss with their fingers and they go back to kissing with their mouths too, every part of them connected that could be.

 _You are all I ever wanted in a mate._ Spock’s not even sure what he’s saying anymore. He’s delirious with their union. _You are my everything... my sun, my stars..._

 _I love you,_ Jim gasps, and it’s all he can manage, over and over again, _I love you, I love you... Spock, I didn’t know I could love anyone as much as I love you..._

_I love you too..._

And then a rapturous flood releases Spock’s body, and he’s seeing stars behind his eyelids, mind searing too hot to do anything but scream his lover’s name. Jim’s clinging to him, following him down, bursting between their stomachs as Spock fills Jim up. He plants his seed in Jim and continues to thrust, milking everything he can. He fills Jim up with his love and kisses Jim into oblivion.

Even when he comes down, he’s light heated and lost, so much higher than when they started. They collapse against one another, panting and near tears, sloppily sharing kisses and strokes and murmured echoes of worship. 

When they do regain the strength to do so, they roll over. They rearrange their legs, and Jim begins to prepare Spock’s entrance. Spock is already there; his body knows when to let his t’hy’la in.

They make love all night, never once seeing anything but each other.


	4. ~

Spock wakes up alone.

At first, it’s difficult to comprehend. He only closed his eyes for a moment, and he fell asleep with his t’hy’la nestled safely in his arms, the two of them curled in on one another so tightly that _no one_ should’ve been able to pull them apart.

But now his arms are empty, and his bed is a giant chasm, the sheets a mess and the air thick with the smell of their memories. The blanket’s half up his chest, and he _knows_ that Jim tucked him in.

The _pon farr_ is over. The fever is gone. But there’s an ocean of despair in its place; reality comes crashing down around him; he’s bonded to a man he cannot have. He covers his face with his hands; he doesn’t know what to do. 

He understands why Jim left, of course. With his logic settling neatly back into place, the steely realization that they were doomed from the start is firm and impassible. The only hope for them, as little and useless as it is, is to fit back into their roles, heavy and half of themselves, but better than being torn apart irrevocably and condemned by the powers that be. Jim would be severely punished, would be sent away, would be sentenced by the ancient laws. Sarek might even argue Jim’s fault; he snuck into Spock’s room at night when Spock was mindless and unable to say no, and he gave away what wasn’t his to do so with. But Spock is equally as guilty; he’s from a long line of noble Vulcans, and he lowered himself and his family’s honour with it. His hands slip from his face, and he stares at the ceiling: an empty, white expanse painted in the cruel morning light. 

Still, he doesn’t regret taking Jim. Jim is his mate, he knows that now, would still be his mate, even if they’d never discovered each other. They would’ve simply wandered the world without ever knowing the joy of a t’hy’la’s hold, and he supposes, as painful as it is now, that their one night was _worth it._

When he rolls over to search the floor, Jim’s collar is gone. He knows it must be back around Jim’s neck, bearing the pendant with Sarek’s name. He knows where Jim must be, but he opens his mind anyway, knowing full well that it’ll _hurt_ to see.

He finds his t’hy’la across all their distance, through all the walls; he fills Jim’s mind and finds refuge in it: warmth and sanctity in the shadow of his lover. He’s bundled and fetal and small, and Jim senses him and whispers over him, _I’m so sorry... I’m sorry I had to leave... Spock..._

 _No._ Spock understands. He expresses that. Jim’s voice is shaken, and it breaks off; Jim’s distracted; his body is sweating and being bent and his breath is ragged. Spock doesn’t expand to more, doesn’t want to know. The thought of his father’s hands on his Jim makes him sick. He mutters in a deadpanned, hopeless whisper, _You’re with him, aren’t you?_

Jim hesitates. He isn’t concealing the answer, simply trying to ease Spock’s pain. Understanding doesn’t make it any easier. Eventually, Jim sighs, _He’s in my body. He looks like you, sometimes, feels like you. But my heart and my mind are yours._

Spock curls tighter into himself. He’s trying to keep the flood of his sorrow from drowning Jim. Holding on feels like he’s clutching fire, burning his hands. He asks as his flesh smolders, _Does he treat you well?_

 _He is good to me._

That’s good. Spock wants Jim to be happy. He knows Jim isn’t, though the bond showed that Jim once was, if never to the extent they had last night. Jim’s struggling like he is, and Jim whispers, full of remorse, _I can’t... I have to let go for now, Spock. He’ll suspect... I’m sorry..._

Spock understands. He _hates_ it. He pulls his mind away, retreats back into himself, finds his own skull dull and useless and wretched. Images of his lover crushed beneath Sarek’s weight in Sarek’s bed invade every pore of Spock’s body, the sounds of Jim’s moans and Sarek’s panting, the smell of arousal and sex and the slickness of wet, stained skin. Jealousy seizes him in a fearsome, bloody grip, and it’s all Spock can do to stay alive. He wants to collapse in on himself and come undone. He wonders vaguely, too terrified of the answer to ask, if Jim enjoys the feeling of Sarek filling him. 

He only forces himself from bed when Jim sends a wave of strength and comfort at him: the stability and will to move.

* * *

Spock is drawn from his quarters for breakfast. No matter how wide he opens the windows or how much he adjusts the environmental controls, the scent of _them_ is too heavy. He takes a seat on the patio and lets Jim know where he is; half an hour later, Jim appears with the usual breakfast tray. He places it on the little side table and takes a seat in the other chair, too far away.

They must uphold appearances. If Sarek strolls in on them, he’ll see nothing but his slave serving his son, the only misstep remaining to watch. 

In a perfect world, they would eat together. They would share food between their lips, tasting each other’s fingers, popping food into one another’s mouths and kissing between sweet bites. The images flicker through Spock’s head before he can stop them, and Jim feels a pang of longing that draws Spock’s gaze.

Spock eats with his chopsticks. He tries to watch the garden, because looking at Jim stirs too many things; the wound’s too fresh. He realizes now, out in the light of day, how very foolish his choice was. He supposes he knew that all along, but the gravity of it was never so real.

Jim mumbles a quiet, “I’m so sorry.”

Spock answers simply, “I am glad you did it.” 

_Are you really?_

_I would not have been content with anyone else._

_Neither would I, but now you’ll never be content._

Spock glances sideways and catches Jim’s eyes, expression too solemn for a face as light as his. He looks better with his smiles and mirth. Spock attempts to reassure them both, _At least you are well._

_My body is. My heart’s torn in two._

There’s nothing to do but nod. Spock probes at a round tula berry, circling it meanderingly around his plate. Their mental bond is incredibly strong, even now, with no contact, with the distance between them, with the difference in species, with all the obstacles. Spock holds Jim in their heads and cradles his consciousness, vainly struggling at comfort. 

With an audible wry laugh, Jim sadly suggests, _I could please you, now. We could slip into a private room; he would never have to know..._

Spock’s already shaking his head. _You know that is not what I want of you, t’hy’la._

Jim’s face twists in pain. _I know. But I just want to hold you again. To be near you. To feel you..._

 _We cannot._ The risks are too high. They’ve taken so many chances. They’re holding one another in the safety of their minds, but it’s not, cannot be, enough.

* * *

The gardens are beautiful in the mid-afternoon sun. Jim’s done well with them, like all the slaves who tended it before him. Spock thinks his mother would be proud. He sits on the bench in the midst of them for this reason. She wouldn’t approve, either; she loved him too much for that. She cared about his future. But she would understand more than anyone else, and Sarek won’t remember that. 

A PADD in Spock’s fingers allows him cover; he pretends to be reading. In reality, his peripherals are focused on Sarek and Jim, over in another secluded alcove, the view of them sparse and blurred through the trees. They were on a short stroll, but they’ve stopped, and Spock knows that Sarek’s hand is running down Jim’s body, tracing hard lines that should belong to Spock. 

It kills Spock to watch this. But he can’t leave, can’t abandoned it; he’s mired in the pain and doesn’t know how to extricate himself. He feels horrible and dirty for fucking a man that belongs to his father—for taking pleasure in his father’s toys. Everything he touched, his father had first. Everything he touched, his father has after. By now, the scent of Spock’s touch has already been replaced with Sarek’s. Spock’s taste in Jim’s mouth has already been replaced with Sarek’s. Any trace of his seed left inside Jim’s rear has been drowned in Sarek’s more frequent loads, and Jim’s entire body is a marker for his master’s touch, _not his mate’s._

Sarek loops an arm around Jim’s waist and leads him further down the path, out of Spock’s sight, out of Spock’s hearing range.

He knows that Sarek is lying Jim down in the flowers. The ones that remind Sarek most of Spock’s mother. Jim is a shell: a pretty facsimile; Sarek can’t appreciate all of him like Spock does. But Sarek doesn’t need to. Jim is his property to fuck as he will, and Spock’s fingers are tightening so hard in the PADD that he fears he’ll break the screen. 

He blocks their mental bond when he feels Sarek press a kiss to Jim’s lips, and he feels Jim keening and pawing at the barrier that rises. With a strangled choking noise, Spock slides it back down and lets Jim through, lets Jim cling to him even as Jim’s legs are spreading for his master. Spock tries not to see, not to feel, but he stays in Jim’s mental arms: a trembling comfort in a sea of _wrong_.

He shuts down the PADD and heads back to the house. Jim’s skirt is being broken.

* * *

After dinner, Spock returns to his room, and he’s surprised when Sarek follows him. Retaining his composure becomes exponentially harder, but he doesn’t let his worry show. He takes a seat on his bed and lets his father take a seat at his desk, facing him. It’s impossible to tell by Sarek’s face what this is about, just like it always is. 

“We only seem to speak during mealtimes,” Sarek comments, his tone neither serious nor light. “I trust your continued studies have kept you occupied?”

Not nearly so much as his personal turbulence, but Spock finds it close enough to the truth to say, “Yes, Father.”

“That is good. Your schooling is not over simply because you have become an adult. There is still much to learn. It is good that you excelled at the Academy.”

Normally, Spock would cherish the praise, but now, he knows that every grain of approval he receives is born of falsities. He did well in his studies, yes, but it won’t matter when the world learns of his failure. 

When Spock gives no response, Sarek continues rather bluntly, “While you were at the Academy, you were given the opportunity to make the acquaintance of many other Vulcans your age. Did you choose a mate?”

Startled, Spock’s eyes widen. These aren’t the sort of things proper Vulcans discuss, but then, he supposes, he wasn’t old enough before, and it is just the two of them, alone in the privacy of their home. Still, Spock struggles to keep his cheeks pale and not green. 

Though Spock hasn’t clarified, Sarek rolls on. “You are approaching the age of _pon farr._ The Academy would have notified me if you had felt it there, and it is fortunate you were spared long enough to be home. You now have the opportunity to choose a suitable candidate, or I will choose one for you. My influence is vast; I am sure I can secure you someone whom you will consider acceptable.” 

Honestly, Spock hadn’t thought he would have any choice at all. The fact that Sarek would let him pick means a great deal, though it won’t do either of them any good now. He knows that Jim isn’t a suitable candidate. He wonders vaguely what would happen if he were to be truthful, as a good son would be, and reveal that Sarek took his first choice in the gardens only a few hours before. Spock’s tongue is dry in formulating any response; he doesn’t want to _lie_.

He deadpans, “I will think on it.” Which is evasive but seems to satisfy. Sarek rises and smoothes out his robes.

“Notify me if you have need of assistance. The decision is better reached swiftly; the times of the initial _pon farr_ are imprecise.”

Spock stands politely, and Sarek sees himself to the door.

* * *

He hates sleeping alone.

He’s slept alone all his life. Even when he was a child, despite his mother’s suggestions, Sarek forbade him to ever share their bed. His _pon farr_ was the first time that was ever different.

But now his loneliness seems an insurmountable feeling, the emptiness enough to swallow him whole. He spends an extra hour meditating, attempting to relax, and briefly considers throwing himself into a trance not unlike a coma, but the risk of his father finding him and probing his mind to retrieve the cause is too great. Eventually, he falls asleep, feeling numb and sick.

He’s woken by a sudden noise and a probing in his head that gently coaxes him back to life; warmth refills his body, and he looks through the darkness to where the doors are parting. 

It’s the middle of the night, according to the clock reading on Spock’s far wall. Jim creeps through the room silently, murmuring, “I’ll stay for a few hours.” He climbs onto the bed like he never left, and even as Spock hesitates, he lifts the covers for his mate to slip beneath. This isn’t right, but he couldn’t let Jim go if he wanted to.

He whispers, “This is wrong.”

“I don’t care,” Jim insists. He settles beside Spock and kisses Spock’s cheek, kisses Spock’s nose, kisses Spock’s forehead, while Spock’s eyelids flutter and his hand searches for Jim’s. “I long for you every moment and I hate us being apart, even if it’s sudden.” Jim’s hand comes to meet him; their fingers slide over one another beneath the covers, intimately caressing.

Spock shuffles as close as he can and wraps a leg around Jim’s, securing Jim in; Jim’s body collides with his, chest to chest, two hearts in different places but matching pace. Jim’s skirt and Spock’s pajama pants are between them, but the rest of them are free to touch. They lie face to face on the pillow, noses touching. Jim’s eyes are half lidded, like Spock’s. They’re damp around the edges. Jim’s voice breaks when he whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

“Do you regret it?” Spock asks, though he’s already anticipated the answer. Jim shakes his head, lips thinning, tongue darting out to lick them. “Neither do I. You are not to blame for the unfortunate circumstances.”

“I am to blame. I snuck into your room at night when you were helpless to deny me. I kissed you and begged you.”

“I kissed you first,” Spock reminds him. “And this is my home. You are here because you are a slave. In a way, we are both captives, but your situation is worse, however temporarily back my illness may have set me.” Spock presses both of his fingers into Jim’s palm and insists, “It does not matter. We were meant to be joined, and we are. If neither of us regrets this, let us not pursue fault.”

“I wish I could be yours,” Jim mumbles. He squeezes his eyes tight, and moisture gathers, his body trembling with emotion. “I wish I were my own to give...”

“I wish you were too, and I wish that you could have me.” Spock wants to say more, wants to soothe the shaking bundle in his arms, but there’s nothing he _can_ say. He feels just as helpless. A tear slips down Jim’s cheek, then another, pulled by gravity into the pillow. He shifts closer and pecks Spock’s lips, and Spock presses back, trying to be _strong_ in a river of weakness. Jim’s fingers leave his, arms throwing around him, and Spock lets Jim pull him close. Jim’s face buries in the side of his, and he presses back, clutching for dear life. He’s never known a pain so deep as feeling his t’hy’la cry.

He tries to stitch together their wounds, but he knows in the morning, Jim will be gone, and the sutures will dissolve into the hot Vulcan air.


	5. ~

When Spock wakes, Jim is still in his arms.

The early morning light is thin through his curtains, and it bathes Jim in a soft, pale glow. He’s curled in to Spock, and feels, more than ever, exponentially _vulnerable_. All the strength he has in consciousness has slipped away. He’s a gentle, fragile thing that Spock cradles close to himself, fearful of letting go. 

He needs to send Jim away, and he knows that. He needs to get up and prepare for the day; the longer he waits, the more stale his mouth becomes, the stickier his face feels from Jim’s crusted tears. He doesn’t move.

Eventually, Jim stirs against him. Like a light coming on, Spock feels Jim’s mind spark in the darkness, and it fans into a wavering, terrified thing that looks up suddenly, shifting back beneath the covers to stare, wide eyed.

Jim mutters, “Shit.” Then, louder, “ _Shit._ ” He shakes his head, face scrunched in agony, and he nearly sobs, “I have to go. Sarek... he’ll... Spock, I have to go.”

Spock merely nods; he understands. He does not like it. But he understands. 

Jim licks his lips and lurches to leave. He scrambles out of bed and races for the door. He doesn’t look back, but he doesn’t have to. The bond between them is strong as ever, but Jim’s control is tenuous, and Spock pours what little strength he has into keeping Jim upright. Fear is all over Jim’s mind, clouding everything—not of punishment, but of being discovered. For both their sakes. Spock knows this can’t go on forever, but he doesn’t know what to _do_.

He pushes himself out of bed. He wants to open his mind more to Jim when he trudges for the bathroom, about to shower, but he knows he’s done enough damage.

There’s a flicker of his life that’s been stripped away. Perhaps Sarek will be pleased with his newfound numbness.

* * *

Spock retreats to a lesser used study in the far corner of the house, on the top floor, where Sarek rarely goes. With a Vulcan servant, it wouldn’t show, but clearly, Jim has neglected cleaning it in Sarek’s absence. There’s a layer of dust to the shelves that Spock finds oddly comforting. The seat is clean enough, and he sits on it while he pours over a PADD he’s barely digesting. 

Jim finds him easily, strolling in later with a tray of breakfast. Spock’s eyes immediately scan Jim’s body for signs of punishment, though if anything had happened, Spock knows he would’ve felt the anxiety and the pain. ...Unless, of course, Sarek blocked it, which, Spock supposes, is possible. But Jim looks fine, and Jim brings him the tray like usual, placing it on his lap and sitting aside. Jim puts his hands on his knees and breathes out; relief is all over him.

Spock doesn’t ask if his tardiness was forgiven. The only thing they need to worry about, if tardiness is all that’s discovered, is Jim’s supposed human failings. Sarek demands a certain standard of slave, and if Jim proves inadequate, Sarek can easily afford to trade him in.

As Spock pokes at his soup with his spoon, he clears his mind of all the consequences for circumstances they can no longer change. Fretting will not help, and it’ll spill over to Jim, who’s worried enough. Spock stirs the Plomeek broth once and lifts the spoon to his lips, noting the appropriate, lukewarm temperature. 

Jim mumbles suddenly, staring blankly at Spock’s tray, “My heart’ll break when you go away to Starfleet.”

Spock drops the spoon abruptly, the compliment he was about to provide slipping his mind entirely. He frowns at Jim. He tries to explain, quietly and with a sidelong look at the closed door, “I cannot leave my t’hy’la. I will stay.” It’s not a decision he’s made consciously or even really thought about, but there is no real choice. He would share a similar fate, and even in Starfleet, Vulcans are not permitted to have severed hearts. He’s surprised when Jim just shakes his head.

“No, you have to.” Jim winces to himself, then lifts his head, announcing fiercely, “Spock, you _have_ to follow your dreams. I won’t hold you back. Besides, I... you know I would’ve liked Starfleet too. You have to go. For both of us.”

Frowning deepening, Spock notes, “I cannot share it with you. Our bond would still exist, but it would not be strong enough for you to see through my eyes. And it is unlikely I would be able to send you messages...”

“That’s not what I meant. But I _can’t_ go there. You can. If I at least know that you’re happy, it’ll ease my mind.”

“You know I cannot be happy without you.” It’s a simple, obvious statement, but it still makes Jim’s face twist in painful resignation.

He looks away and sighs. Spock, devoid of all appetite under the circumstances, lifts the tray. He moves to place it on the nearby desk, then returns to the couch, sitting next to Jim. It’s very unlikely Sarek would walk in on them here, but he refrains from taking Jim’s hand anyway. He must look respectable. Their knees are touching, and the way Jim glances at it, it might be enough. 

Jim asks quietly, “Is it possible to... to dissolve our bond?”

All control breaks. Spock’s face falls. It takes him too long to try and cover himself up, but there’s no point; Jim can feel it in him, he knows. They’re words he never wanted to hear, even before he was bound. Vulcan mating is not so... _trivial_. He knows why Jim’s said it, but he checks anyway, gently probes at Jim’s mind, and he’s too relieved when he finds nothing’s changed. Jim still loves him. Inexplicably and powerful, Jim’s love is there. Spock embraces it, pushes his own back, and Jim flinches, like acknowledging something he doesn’t want to see. Spock whispers, “You do not want to let go of me anymore than I do of you, t’hy’la.”

“I know,” Jim answers bitterly. For a moment, it seems like he might cry again. He lifts a hand and rubs one eye with the heel of it, though his face stays dry. He sucks in a breath and pushes out, firmer than he feels, “I was operating on instinct at the time. I do that a lot. But now... now it seems impossible. I belong to your father.” This is all information Spock knows and knew. It changes nothing. Jim turns to look at him and hisses resentfully, “I haven’t been as good for him. I’ve been messing up, and I... I don’t enjoy being fucked by him like I used to, and I’m sure that shows.” It’s Spock’s turn to wince at the harsh reality, but Jim ignores him and presses on. “I haven’t been good enough for him, and he must know that. I’ll probably be sold soon, and you’re just a student; we both know you can’t afford what they charge for slaves. It’s... it’ll be best if you leave.”

The thought that Spock’s lowered Jim’s value is heartbreaking. He didn’t know how Jim truly felt about Sarek before, but now he has proof that Jim _enjoyed_ it. Spock doesn’t know what’s worse; Jim wanting sex with his father or no longer wanting it and taking it anyway. It isn’t sex at that point, he tells himself, though he knows the Empire wouldn’t care. He tries to tell himself it’s worse; Jim would’ve been better off never meeting him. But the idea of Sarek having his mate irks him to the very core. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants the stars, always wanted them very, very badly, but if the price for them is Jim, it’s something Spock won’t pay.

Spock wonders vaguely how many years it would take him to get high enough in the Empire to afford a slave, and how much damage Jim would go through until then, and the likelihood of having Jim still for sale. Another master, particularly on Vulcan, one without a human preference, would never treat Jim as well. The more Spock thinks about it, the worse it is. 

But the thought of dissolving what they have is gut wrenching, and he couldn’t take that either. 

He feels helpless, trapped, and he turns, all pretenses aside, lifting his fingers to be held. Jim caresses them sadly. The warmth means everything.

* * *

Before dinner, he seeks Jim out. He moves first, walking swiftly down the halls, a decision he didn’t want to make on his tongue. He finds Jim in the garden, finishing up the pruning, but Jim drops everything when he sees the look on Spock’s face. They can’t have the discussion here. Sarek visits the gardens too often. Spock says nothing, just turns and walks back through the house, knowing Jim’s followed.

In Spock’s bedroom, he waits until the doors are securely shut behind them, and then he turns. Jim says first, “The Ambassador’s on a conference call. He should be busy for at least an hour.” And even though Spock didn’t ask, it’s a relief. He swallows and tries to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth. 

“I prepared my argument,” he somehow manages, and though it’s vague, Jim seems to understand. His face steels over, but reassurance wafts out of him; it’s what he wants. Spock elaborates, just to fill the painful silence, “I will speak with him as soon as possible about my application to Starfleet. I will...” But he trails off. He means to say that he’ll find a way to write, but he knows better than to make promises he can’t keep. 

Jim nods and mutters, “I understand.” He’s the only person that could. He opens his mouth, and though he doesn’t speak, Spock knows what he means to say.

So quietly that Jim might not hear, Spock says, “I will not dissolve our bond.” Jim nods again. Firm, solid. His face and his mind betray that he doesn’t feel the strength he shows, but there’s no fight in it. “It will hurt. It will hurt a great deal. But... unless you truly wish this to end, I will not let go of you.”

Jim looks up at him, eyes growing red around the edges from all the damage they’ve done in such a short time. Spock’s hands lift of their own accord, and he cups Jim’s face. It can’t offer anything other than warmth, but it seems to lend a fire to Jim’s weary bones. He gulps, and on the next breath, he’s stronger. 

Spock’s seized with the horrible reality that he won’t have this forever, not like he should, and that drives him to move far beyond logic. He dives forward and presses their lips together in a sloppy, ill-fated kiss, much too hard. Jim doesn’t seem to care. Jim’s arms wrap around his neck, and Jim kisses him back. They break apart and readjust and begin, less messy. Jim holds them together so fiercely.

Jim growls in between kisses, “I don’t want to give you up.” Another kiss, another. “I _want_ you so bad...”

Spock doesn’t need to breathe to answer; he pushes through the bond: _want you too, t’hy’la. Always want you._

 _I’ll think of you every day,_ Jim nearly cries. Suddenly, he’s pushing Spock physically, forcing him to step back, but their mouths only part for split seconds at a time. Spock knows he’s being driven back to the bed, and he lets Jim do that, can feel all Jim’s frustration, feels that human need to treasure every moment they can, attach themselves to the fullest. _I’ll read all your letters._

 _I will tell you everything,_ Spock insists. _They will be addressed to him, but the words will be for you._

_Tell me what the stars are like._

Spock’s heart pangs. His knees hit the back of the bed. He buckles onto it, pulling Jim with him, a fervent heap in his lap that pushes him back against the mattress. They shouldn’t be doing this in his childhood bed. They should be up in _space_ : both their desires; the third piece to their broken triumvirate. That and freedom—a commodity the Empire doesn’t relish. 

Spock pulls Jim up, and they readjust in the bed, lie properly, with one sheet pulled up over them. It’s dangerous, so dangerous, but neither can pull away, not with the end so near and the future so bleak. Jim lies on top of him and spreads his legs, prepares him lovingly, even though his body opens itself, slicks itself, gives itself over to the man he’s sworn to. They scramble with each other’s clothes, pushing and pulling everything away, and Spock takes the collar off again—it stings to look at. Jim tells him, _I would wear one for you. Willingly._

_As would I for you, but with all the bitter memories, perhaps our throats should be free._

Jim kisses the side of his face and his nose and his lips, and when Jim pushes into him, their bodies seem to join into _one_. A singular, unstoppable force. Everything else falls away. Spock loses himself to the pleasure that is their joining. The aches and sores fall away, and for that short time, the world is just the two of them, trapped in this little bed that they’ve both outgrown, and they kiss and touch and memorize everything anew. 

When Spock was little, and he asked if Sarek missed his mother, his father told him that Amanda would’ve said, “It’s better to have loved and lost then never loved at all.”

But Spock had tears in his eyes and couldn’t understand.

* * *

They leave too late. They take damp cloths and try to wipe away the evidence of their deviance, but Spock doesn’t know how effective it is. Jim says it doesn’t matter; he’ll shower before Sarek touches him; he’s allowed to. It still makes Spock uncomfortable, though when Jim asks him, he doesn’t regret it. 

They leave the room together. They’ll split up—Jim to begin on a late dinner and Spock to find and speak to Sarek. But Sarek appears at the end of a corner and heads them of. Spock summons the strength to say what he must, but it’s Jim that Sarek looks at.

“You are late,” Sarek smoothly announces, to which Jim can only nod and lower his head.

“I’m sorry.”

“This is not enough. You have been negligent in too many of your duties of late. You are treated well, James. I expect the respect of your full abilities in return.”

Jim nods shallowly and repeats, “I’m sorry.” It sounds like he really is. If Sarek were a human, he would likely sigh. Instead, he gestures to himself, half turned to disappear down the crossing corridor again.

“Come.”

Jim obediently follows, while Spock reels in between and restraints himself from mentioning his own fault in Jim’s actions—it won’t do them any good. It’ll only make things worse. Still, as his father turns, Spock says, “Father, I must speak with you.”

Sarek turns marginally towards him and lifts an eyebrow. Jim’s already at his side. He seems to be waiting, but all Spock offers is, “I... wish to discuss the matter of my future.”

“Very well,” Sarek replies tersely. “We will speak at dinner; I regret that I may be a few moments late, as events have set us back.”

Spock acknowledges with a tight, “Thank you.” It’s gratitude he doesn’t feel and illogical to say, but Sarek doesn’t scold him. Sarek turns and scoops Jim away.

* * *

Though ‘moments’ are a broad term, the time Spock actually waits in the dining room seems to exceed that quite easily. He sits in his seat at the table, waiting for Sarek’s arrival, pre-determined words a jumble in his head, but he waits, and he waits.

The longer he sits, the more nervous he becomes. His bond with Jim has grown hazy, and he doesn’t think that’s normal. Not over time, not at all. But he hasn’t been bonded before, and he only knows what he feels. When he reaches tentatively out for Jim’s mind, he finds a blurry cloud that he can’t penetrate, and he doesn’t try to—he can’t afford to punch through Jim’s defenses when Sarek’s with him. Spock wonders if, perhaps, Jim is attempting to block him for his own safety. It would make sense, but now that he’s grown somewhat used to having Jim with him, that absence is difficult to handle. 

Then he wonders if perhaps Sarek is fucking Jim. It swells anger in his chest, but he crushes it. In that case, the blockade is a blessing. ...Perhaps Jim will be able to occasionally sleep in Spock’s childhood bed when he’s gone. It would be a small comfort.

He’ll return, somehow. In between missions. It would be permitted. It would not be the end, not really, though it would always feel like it. Vulcan bonds don’t end. Spock leans back in his chair, adjusting his posture and trying to throw his mind elsewhere. He can’t have any of this on his face when he speaks to his father. It’ll be difficult to convince his father to allow him to attend Starfleet. A Vulcan Institute would be much closer to Jim, he imagines, but it might hurt more for that reason, and then Jim would never get a look, however distant, at other worlds. 

Finally, he hears footsteps. He hears more than that. They’re harried, and Jim...

Sarek emerges in the doorway, dragging Jim by the arm, whose cheeks are stained with water. He’s crying profusely, trying to stop, and Spock, horrified, tries to open his mind to Jim, but Jim’s still gone. Sarek doesn’t walk to the head of the table, but one of the chairs next to Spock, which he pulls aside. He takes his seat and rearranges his robes, looking as regal as ever, while Jim, head hung, comes to sit at his feet like the good slave he rarely is. 

Spock’s blood has run cold, and shock binds him still, while he struggles with himself to contain his anger. If Sarek has hurt Jim...

Sarek informs Spock tightly, “I have been in James’ head.” Jim’s wiping his eyes on the heels of his palms. Spock doesn’t know which of them he’s more terrified for. For one horrible moment, he actually considers lunging for his father’s neck, attempting the Vulcan nerve pinch, and spiriting Jim away. It would never work, but Spock’s experiencing a panic like he’s never had before. Sarek continues, “...And I have seen you there.”

Spock licks his dry lips. He’s sure he’ll be disowned, perhaps worse. Memories of being a child in Sarek’s arms, however rare, surface, entirely unwanted. He’s always loved his father, even if they never spoke of such things. Now, Sarek’s gaze is as cold as ever, and Spock is dizzy with his own terror. Sarek watches him and slowly asks, “Is what I have seen true, Spock?” The possibility that it’s just Jim’s fantasies linger in the air, but Spock knows Sarek wouldn’t fall for that.

Spock can’t lie to his father. To protect Jim, he could deny everything. But even that might not work. He feels trapped. 

He offers his confirmation in a small nod, and his chin hangs against his collarbone. 

Sarek stands out of the chair. Towering over Spock in a grand shadow, he says as emotionlessly as any master of Kolinahr, “I will need some time to think on this.” He half turns, as though to leave, but then stops to add, “I trust I can leave my slave’s side without you ravaging him.”

Spock barely manages a hollow, “Yes, Father. I... I will not touch him.” He can’t look up. He imagines he’s being studied.

Then Sarek sweeps away, leaving Jim to tremble in Spock’s peripherals. 

As soon as Sarek’s gone, Spock obliterates the barriers between them. A sudden burst of _agony_ sweeps into him—Jim reaching back. Trapped by their skin and bones, their consciousnesses surge together, and it’s almost too much for Spock to take—he sways in his seat.

Jim mumbles, _I’m sorry_. Spock reiterates the same. They’ve both lost a good man.

But then, Spock knows, in the Empire, there is no such thing.


	6. ~

At night, Jim retreats to his master’s side, and Spock doesn’t see him. Spock stays awake at night for hours on end, expecting the doors to creak open, but they don’t. Spock doesn’t probe at their connection, mostly because he’s afraid of what he’ll see. When he does finally manage to lose consciousness, it feels like a small miracle.

In the morning, he doesn’t feel rested in the slightest. He feels heavy and nervous and sick to his stomach—nearly as bad as he did during pon farr. He wants to stay in bed, but he also wants to run far, far away and never come back.

He stays in bed for an inordinately long time—far past what’s acceptable. He half expects Sarek to come and scold him, and he would almost welcome it as a sign of normality. But things aren’t _normal_ , and he remains bleakly alone.

Jim doesn’t come to bring him breakfast. He wonders if the table’s set with food waiting there, but there’s a process before he can go. He has a sonic shower. He changes into his best robes, then decides otherwise and switches to loose pants and a grey sweater his mother made for him. Sarek will remember when Spock received it from her, and perhaps it will soothe him, or at least remind him how important family is.

...Or perhaps it will remind him that he can recover from the loss of a family member, but Spock hopes it isn’t that. 

Spock hesitates too long in front of his doors. Though it’s tenuous, he feels safer here. It’s scary out there. So filled with _unknowns._ The thoughts are beneath him: childhood demons summoned back. He forces himself to step forward. He makes his way into the corridor and stiffly down the hall. 

He breaks and presses at the bond, and he experiences a tremendous amount of relief to find Jim unharmed. Jim’s nervous, very nervous, and still upset, but he’s healthy and all his vitals are stable. If Sarek had beaten Jim, Spock thinks he would know. Something about Jim’s demeanor hints that Sarek hasn’t touched him at all since the discovery, and it makes Spock ponder if his father’s disgusted to find they’ve shared lovers.

Jim opens up to Spock but doesn’t stay long. The reassurance is enough to keep Spock composed.

In a sudden spurt of logical bravery, he checks his father’s study on the way to the kitchens, but he finds it ominously empty.

* * *

He finds Sarek seated at the dining table, devoid of any dishes. Spock hesitates on instinct, then summons the strength to behave accordingly; he’s a disobedient child. He hangs his head and stays in the doorway, politely awaiting further instructions.

Sarek summons him with a curt, “Be seated,” and Spock snaps to move, strolling forward. There is no other sensible option; he takes the seat across from Sarek. Sarek, frowning sternly, tells him, “You will summon James.”

Stifling his shock, Spock tentatively obeys. He doesn’t want to drag Jim into this, but he knows Jim already _is_ in it. 

So he reaches through the bond to take Jim’s hand, and he feels Jim’s held breath and unsteady exhale. Spock whispers, _I am sorry. But you must come._

Jim takes a moment to reply, _I understand. I’m in the garden. I’ll wash up and come to you and... and him?_

_He is here._

_...I will be there._ But Jim’s terror has spiked, and it’s clear that he doesn’t want to. He’s always brave. He does anyway. Spock slips back in the interest of at least paying his father the respect of full attention. By the look on his father’s face, however close to its normal emotionless gaze, he’ll need a lot more to survive.

He will survive, he supposes, when he’s cast out. Disowned. He’ll have nowhere to go. He doesn’t think his father would sell him into slavery; there would be too much shame, detachment or not. It’s more likely that Spock will be shown the door without any credits to his name, and he’ll be forced to find a menial, backwater service job that won’t require any family status, and he’ll spend his days struggling in obscurity and loneliness. ...And eventually, perhaps someday far off, when he’s gone through half a dozen pon farr cycles, he’ll earn enough to afford transport on a vessel and lodging on Earth and Starfleet tuition, and by the time he’s old and grey, he’ll reach the stars, with no one at home to write letters to.

Nameless, he would never be able to purchase a slave. He wouldn’t see Jim again. He might die from the next pon farr without. But perhaps he could sneak back anyway, and they could struggle through an impossible, torrid affair, despite all odds and sanity...

He’d break apart in the process, he thinks. And he certainly wouldn’t be _Vulcan_ anymore; he would lose everything he is. But he’s no longer in charge of his options. He waits to hear his fate, but his father doesn’t speak to him in the several minutes they wait for Jim’s arrival. 

When Jim does arrive, he hovers near the table for a few tense moments, until Sarek asks him coolly, “Have you forgotten how to serve, James?”

Jim shakes his head quickly, mutters an apology, and hurries off to the kitchen. Spock, surprised, follows the movement with his eyes until Jim disappears around the corner. He reappears shortly with an elaborate fruit tray and pancake squares. He sets it in the middle and places down their separate plates and chopsticks and then returns to the kitchen, presumably to fetch their drinks. Spock doesn’t dare eat, though Sarek begins to move various pieces of fruit to his plate. Watching this instead of Spock, he says, rather tersely, “I am aware that I am partially to blame for this discretion.”

Eyebrows rising in all the more shock, Spock is temporarily rendered speechless. That was _not_ what he was expecting. When he regains the ability to speak, he quickly insists, “Father, the fault is entirely my own, you have done nothing—”

“I bonded to a human,” Sarek says sharply, cutting Spock off. “I birthed you to that human and sired what I knew to be a flawed offspring. I have done everything in my power to raise you above that faulty beginning, but I see now I should not have expected to turn you into what you are not. You are part human; that fact is no longer deniable.”

Spock knows better than to interrupt, but his heart is thudding against his side. His hands are folded in his lap, but they clench imperceptibly at the callous mention of his mother, though, of course, he understands the logic in his father’s words. And he knows his father loved his mother very much, but that doesn’t change the fact that Spock’s inherited half her flaws. 

“When you were younger, I was resigned to the knowledge that your human blood would betray us. It was foolish to assume that threat had been eradicated simply because of your exemplary schooling.” Sarek doesn’t mention the fact that Spock’s bonded another human, but he does say, looking up to catch Spock’s eyes, “However, you must know that bonding to a slave is entirely unacceptable.”

Spock dares a nod, head falling, and a quiet, “I know that, Father. I am deeply sorry.”

“Dissolve your bond.” Spock’s chin snaps back up, eyes widening. Sarek simply rolls on, perfectly calmly, “I can see by your reaction that it is not an option. I did not expect it to be. Do not say you are sorry if you do not mean it.”

Spock gulps. He tries to restrain the visibility of his pain, but he can’t help but insist, “I only mean to regret my actions in the shame it brings to the family.” And he thinks he should say more, but he doesn’t quite know what or how, so he doesn’t. Sarek doesn’t acknowledge his apology.

Sarek, no longer under the pretense of eating breakfast, pushes his plate aside. Spock gets the distinct impression that they’re meant to go on eating afterwards as though the sky isn’t suddenly falling. Sarek clasps his hands on the table in a very ambassadorial pose and tells Spock gravely but pointedly, “I have given considerable thought to our limited options, and I have decided there is only one viable solution. You must leave.”

Spock feels a sudden well of despair, not his own but somehow even greater. He shifts his gaze to the end of the dining room, but Jim hasn’t reappeared. He’s tucked away in the kitchen, listening through Spock’s mind, reacting with sorrow. The presence is a comfort, though not nearly enough to lesson the burden. Spock opens his mouth, but he has no words to give. He has no defense for his actions. He isn’t shaking like he thought he’d be—perhaps his senseless dread beforehand has prepared him better. Now he’s merely numb to a fatal future he knew was coming. 

He’s resigned to that fate when Sarek smoothly continues, “Starfleet is the logical choice.” Spock snaps to attention, nearly reeling. “It will not be the honoured place among our people that our family has always maintained, but you will at least be able to salvage some interstellar respect and eventually retire to the Vulcan consulate on Earth, which is still considered a somewhat respectable position. The Starfleet population is rather diverse, and, fortunately, the Vulcan ways are a mystery to the vast majority of them. Should you manage to place on a ship, it is highly unlikely any of your crewmates will understand Vulcan bonding. I trust, of course, that you would not be foolish enough to enlighten them.”

Though Spock’s mouth has gone inexplicably dry, he somehow manages to croak, “I would not, Father.” He wouldn’t _dare_.

He feels vaguely like he’s five again, being played a cruel prank upon. But adult Vulcans don’t play such pranks, and Sarek’s face is utterly solemn. Spock is... overwhelmed. 

He licks his lips, half a second later realizing it’s a transferred habit from Jim’s presence in him, and mutters, “I was sure you would disown me.” His amazement must show on his face, because Sarek lifts an eyebrow.

“I have no wish to lose my son and heir, however thoughtless he might be. I am operating, of course, under the assumption that you will grow wiser as you age and never do something so imprudent again.”

“I will not, Father,” Spock promises with perhaps too much conviction. “I will make you proud.” ...Or as much so as he’s capable of doing, off in an ‘unworthy’ arrangement. At least now he’ll have the chance to try.

He means to ask about Jim, but he doesn’t dare push his luck, not yet. Sarek, like reading his mind, carries on. “Furthermore, I do not consider myself a cruel man. While your bondmate may be a slave, he is not without his... temptations.” It’s Spock’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Sarek spares a sidelong look at the kitchen before continuing in Spock’s direction, “But I have no need of a slave that would prefer my son. ...Though you have not earned it, I see little choice if I wish to not be the tyrant I deny. I will gift James to you, on the condition that no one will ever know you are bonded to a slave. I am one man, and I cannot change his records; his status is as it is. How you regard that beyond closed doors is your own business, but I insist that those doors remain closed.”

Somewhere along the line, Spock’s hands have risen to grip the table very, _very_ hard.

For only the second time in his life, he is experiencing the want to race around the table and throw his arms around his father’s torso. He’s facing an undeniable wave of appreciation and love, and all he can seem to get past his lips is a brittle, “Thank you.”

“I will transfer the appropriate amount of credits to your account, and I will expect you to have an exotic slave sent to me after you have surveyed the Terran markets. I am not due to return to Earth for some time. ...Out of respect to your mother, I would prefer a male.”

Spock is torn between laughing and weeping with joy, but in the interest of making his wonderful father proud, he schools his face blank and merely says, “Of course, Father.”

* * *

Spock didn’t eat a thing, and it doesn’t matter. He politely sat and watched his father eat, sitting and contemplating and meticulously planning out his future so as to bring as much honour to his father’s name as possible. He would like a space faring vessel, but he would also like a position geared towards an ambassador advancement, so to follow in his father’s footsteps. While his father remains entirely stationed on Vulcan, Spock could at least visit him often. 

They’ll write, of course. Spock will be sure to relay his success and his findings, such as scientific advancements that could only come from off-world pursuits. Perhaps, should he do well enough, he will please Sarek in his own way.

Jim stayed in the kitchen, but Spock isn’t surprised when Jim comes to his room only a few minutes after his arrival. His Starfleet application, sure to be accepted after his father’s illustrious influence, is up on the console, currently only bearing the address. Spock closes the file as soon as he senses Jim’s presence; he can compose and send his application later tonight.

For now, he turns to Jim with as calm a façade as he can manage, not at all surprised to see Jim beaming. Spock stands from his desk, and Jim flies at him, practically melting into his arms. Jim’s cheeks are stained with water, and he’s still crying, but Spock knows the sobs are from only joy. Shocked, overwhelming _joy._ Over Spock’s shoulder, Jim murmurs, “Will you take me?”

“Everywhere,” Spock promises. To the ends of the universe, if that’s where life carries them. When he thinks about it, when he holds Jim against him and imagines their future, he can see Jim easily in the stars. Jim fits there, somehow: his destiny’s always been space. Even now, Spock can sense his unbridled intelligence and curiosity itching to explore, and the galaxy is the largest undiscovered frontier. They can do so _together_ , as bondmates should. 

Jim chokes, “I’m _so_ happy.” It’s a needless confirmation of what Spock already knows. But Jim goes on, pressing a kiss to Spock’s neck, then his cheek, then pulling back to peck his lips, “I always wanted be a part of Starfleet, even if it’s as a slave.”

Spock’s fingers are already moving to Jim’s neck. He traces the collar, and he detaches it, pulling it back to toss aside. It hits the floor and rolls away, while Spock says firmly, “When we are alone or when you are in my quarters, you are _not_ a slave. You are my mate and nothing less.” Jim smiles so broadly and tries to wipe away his tears, even though they’re still falling. Another time, the display of emotional might make Spock uncomfortable, but at the moment, he completely understands the sentiment. They’ve somehow wound up accomplishing the impossible.

Jim chokes a little laugh and says, “If I’m yours now, I suppose I should ask if I can make dinner tonight—I want to cook Ambassador Sarek something special.”

Spock agrees, “That would be best. I am afraid my culinary skills do not extend beyond the Synthesizer.”

Jim laughs louder, shaking his head. “Then I’ll take a care of it and at least let him eat good, home-cooked meals before we traipse away.”

That seems reasonable. Honestly, Spock never contemplated having a slave before, but he doesn’t imagine he’ll be demanding any of those tasks from Jim now. If anything, Jim is likely to become a sort of yeoman to him, and behind close doors, a consultant. _And always a t’hy’la_....But they’ll work out those nuances later, at the brink of their new life.

For now, they’re together, and that’s what matters. Jim lifts his hand before Spock, two fingers raised, and Spock lifts his own to caress them. He slides softly up one side, down another, and wraps around them, anchoring himself in. Jim leans in to kiss him, slow and perfect. 

They drift towards the bed and fall to the sheets, tangling in each other’s arms and properly, truly becoming _one._


End file.
